And once again, we curse the big bad world. And once again, we cheer at our union. Once again, we keep talking about everything (or so it seems).
And just as it is, our voices will keep sloping up and down as we narrate the graph of our lives. And we’ll find we have identical boxes in our graphs. And we’ll pretend we’re close.
It is when we retire to our non-composed selves, when I fill another page of the diary that I spill out my true blood; it is when you text somebody else that you finally say an important something else. That we realize all our empty talk is just an exaggeration of our silence. That the defining lines that run through those boxes remain to be our tactical secrets.