She asked questions, she ordered her words in beautiful fashion, they made great sense and showed intelligence. She had some key to philosophy much in the way I hoped I did. She was open and interesting and we could probably have talked all night. Endless hours discussing books and artists and the end of mankind.
I could be washed away in her words, just as she could be in mine. The perfect flood. Given how truly mechanical and ugly modern communication could be (and I do not doubt the pros for a second) it was refreshing to fall into such an elegant dialogue. When our words dance, when they unite like lovers, when the sparks fly, when one of us dies over and over and the other one catches the body and never lets go. Flowers emerging, unexpected and tragic, flowers emerging at the tongue of a dream. I always trust myself to magic, I let it take me where it will. Drifting like leaves on the water's surface, to be taken almost anywhere. Hold hands with the possibility, with every last drop of hope.
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