Just some words

and slips of the cynic's tongue.

• Frass
  
  I do not know why I am spending the last few hours of the year with her. Right now, though, I feel like everything is a ringing perturbation – the bus rides, the small talk, the pounds I put on. She is here, and along with the throbs of blood that make her physically alive, she is tangible.
  
• Decay and the Bitterness That Follows It
  
  Helena sighed. She did not understand why people had to be in such a hurry all the time, even if they knew the earth would not stop rotating should they be late for class, or why they enjoyed that class in the first place. But she enjoyed Ayn Rand, and people did not understand why either.


• Nude
  
  For the longest time Piper stares at the mirror. She reckons she is the sort of person society ruefully labels as typical—she doesn’t have a symmetrical face, her skin isn’t milky nor akin to porcelain, her eyes are a muddy brown and her lashes are short, and once, while she was attempting to shape up her eyebrows, she nicked a small portion in the middle of the left one.


• The Grass Beds are Home
  
  Bob is sitting on his usual spot. He has his head bowed down, hands supporting it, and his knees are bent so his elbows can rest upon them. I plug in my earphones, figuring some music will keep my mind off certain things, and start fidgeting with the cable. The song playing is starting to tick me off somehow, so I hastily pull the earpiece off and let the cable dangle on the coffee table in front me.