J: Not everything I write is about you, you know, I haven't seen you in over a year.
L: I know, but what the fuck J I read your poetry and you haven't changed since I met you in the hospital.
J: I have changed-- I've gone through hell and come out sparkling clean. I've died and gone through limbo and hell and purgatory and finally I'm back into some state of clear--dream like, child like reality-- and I'm finally thankful for these stupid little miserable days.
L: You're not though, and I'm the only one who watches when you think no one's watching. who are you lying to? You're just caught in this web of sad, lonely lies, and you're going to suffocate. Your brain is dying J, its spinning in circles and it's going to just stop one day-- in your sleep, mid motion, mid thought, it already has.
J: I think about that a lot, you know, it takes a thousand years for a star's projection to fade away-- how do I know I'm not really dead.
L: Why do you say shit like that? Why does everything have to be metaphysics and poetics and rhetorics and bullshit with you?
J: Because I call your phone some nights to hear your voice because you're to only beautiful thought I can't taint with my hands.
L: Aww.
J: But, I'm not sure what's worse, The fact that we're dreaming, or the fact that even in dreams you'd never love me..
L: "Somewhere in the world, roses are green."