| Make This Motion Count |

…and then he squeezed me and I farted…
…yes I shave his back hair…
…actually now I know 5 guitar chords, I’m getting good…

…the things we say, the words twirl like leaves in the wind, us three girls, the table set, the pasta drained, and the camera going, going, going, immortalising moments that are passing by me as they happen. I can capture nothing, but I still try.
Words and images, and memories, will be all that’s left behind when you leave my doors again.
I resign myself to aching with laughter tonight and aching with emptiness next week, this is the nomad way, this is the nomad way.
New homes, new jobs, new boyfriends, I must catch up and take note, and wait til you hear my skandal oh and I have to play you this song, dude did you see that advert on tv?
how do I summarise life?
I can only try, a laptop by my side to aid me with photographic displays of hook up number 12 and number 13.
everything has a title, everyone has a title.

meetings are like picking up a book when the bookmark fell out: did i tell you about the new place? what happened at the party?

It’s such a relief to laugh and know we all still fit, despite the shifts and jumps and changes, you and you and i can still sit, on this single bed, my childhood bed, and laugh at our absurdities.
it’s good to come home to you, my friends.


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