flakes danny people are inherently reliable. even the cherished ones, the ones that get into the heart despite best efforts to slam it shut fast enough but you hesitated didn't you, and feared you'd decapitate someone while they were making a reckless leap aboard your better side even as you pulled back, they got in. shit. evacuating takes forever. now it's all wobbly space of feeling weird and they as much as you wanting wild dreams of stealing each other away body and soul, or at least body and body. but make polite. try to navigate the intimate without it being intimate in the dangerous way. if we were to have sex it might mean too much but if it doesn't mean too much, then what would be the point? you think, fine, we'll be friends, navigate a sane path, but you want to yell love from mountaintops and tell them your deepest secrets but know you're irrational and you'd just scare them. you thought you could only be in love sequentially not simultaneously and didn't see him or him or her coming in simultaneously and there we are, all schoolgirl and insecure and does he like me or like-like me and its all petty time waster and yet can't step out of what the body keeps prattling about with sweaty palms and shaky legs and days measured in minutes of speculations of when will be the next gaze. flakes, all of them. all of me. useless as dandruff when we are each in perpetual solitude of being alone in the universe, even when together. 091223 what's it to you? who go blather from