I can feel you holding my hand, that new-and-scary feeling of someone else on your palm that you weren’t quite sure liked you back yet. I can feel the sand under my feet, and my head on your shoulder.
His camerman seems thoroughly amused. This is like Jackass: German Edition.
You don’t feel rested, just more tired. You feel ashamed because of the hours you missed, the work you’ve put off, the responsibilities that still linger.
I found out Lori carved curse words into her arm with pencils. I knew she was anorexic and bulimic, which, when you’re fourteen, are sort of valorized ailments.
It doesn’t bother most of us that our clothes have gotten lighter over the years, that the fabrics are more often derived from plastic, or that they die a small death every time they go through a cycle in an industrial-strength dryer.