Your Milk Tastes Like Breaking

Jack says, “Portland’s a city in the Pacific Northwest, near Willamette, the Columbia river,” and I ask, “Why are you telling me? Are we going?” and Jack says, “No, I just thought you were interested,” and I reply, “I’m interested in places I might get to, not ones far fetched, that I haven’t heard of or much about.” I see the page scroll, hoping for answers that won’t come, and Jack’s reading’s a silent process like bots checking language or people guessing passwords from other sections on globes.

But I know Portland. Haven’t been there but if meeting people counts, I’ve mapped it’s uneven outline. It’s sprawling, or your topography is, and I’m inexperienced at socials, being part of a club, or the other half of an entirely different person. You may think this is some regretful bullshit post-failure making up for it with the content of Wikipedia articles, but pick me to believe when you’re choosing a church, an organisation, a human or book. I’ll be consistent and textual. I’ll be your charismatic worship. I’m prophetic:  I sensed Lava Field before I saw it, and knew you had potential to melt.

I love the fact that you’re landlocked and that Gus Van Sant is from you. Take me to Satyricon and teach me about Sleater-Kinney.

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