Relapse

This sort of relapse is unnecessary. I may as well be 16, discovering new books, new music, drowning out the fat and hanging onto words which meant nothing. Like, hey, I think you're beautiful and I'd totally date you (why didn't you then?).

I wish the Calcutta roads were better and Baba would drive again.

I wish we were young, sitting in the backseat, listening to The Carpenters, on our way to DB or Labony, just - being young.

I only reached out because there were no cigarettes and the book I was reading made me feel blue and I spent all of last night reading old blog posts about you. I don't feel any better. Because. You kind of suck.