Everything is a derivative of something else. Everything is so connected, so imitated, that eventually, if you go back far enough, the world becomes a grunt, maybe even a glance.
It was late last night when I sat there drowning in a glass of beer, absorbing the world around me at a steady pace: I watched the people, I watched them laugh and cry, sing and shout--I even watched as they looked at me and wondered why I was so far out from the crowd. It was then when I met her, the one from the dream--that easily dissipated flash of light that haunted me the night before.
"Happy birthday," I said, finishing my beer.
"It was yesterday," she spoke in song. I could tell that she had been drunk. But that didn't bother me. Nothing did. I sat there silent and watched as she twirled her hair with the tips of her finger.
She looked at my eyes, then at my glass as I played with it clumsily. She turned and left.
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