salty dogs

First thunderstorm of the season. Flash. Crack. Boom. The onomatopoeia comes out to play. The brick of the low-rise apartment building across from my living room window is etched in moments of pure photo-genesis, and the clouds suffocate the last of evening’s light with a deep purple gloom. Storm energy glowers the rooftops. The anxious manes of the trees in the park across the street toss in the acid urban rain. Cars move like pinhole lanterns pulled along a wet ribbon towards the centre of the city.

I am waiting for AI to come over and watch movies. We have these plutonic cuddle dates on my couch. We watch sci-fi and talk about plot failures, re-cast our least favourite parts, and generally geek out while no one else is watching. I might drink a beer. I might drink two. All these elements in flux outside my door—my commitments, my targets, my sense of self—and inside I get these wonderful constants, the booty plundered from a thousand other stormy nights, roaming the channels of the vast metropolis. Avast, mates, we’ve found another gem!

The friends I’ve made are worth all the trouble I’ve been in and out of this past decade or more. What little I have to show for the effort of my twenties is manifest in my social circle, the people that mean the most to me. I wouldn’t trade them; they’re too rare; too special; too weird. Yes, others have laid the foundations of empires, but I, I have compiled a compendium of companions.

I think my effort has been more wisely spent.

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~ by A Mundi on May 7, 2010.

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