henrik

At night, I think too hard. I look at things-- I mean really look, and it scares people half to death, but it doesn't scare them as much as me. My head goes so fast sometimes I almost get sick and I have to throw away my cigarette and go back inside until I can breathe again.

In the nineties, there used to be this girl, Anni, and sometimes we'd go walking at night, and she made me laugh so I didn't even think. She's the only girl who ever made me laugh; I'm usually the one who's funny. She would hold my arm and we'd walk past shops and cars and people and scenes and she'd say just these mad things: "Someday, I'm going to break into a jeweler's like that, steal all the diamonds I can, and throw them into a salt truck. Winter needs something like that." "Let's find out if someone nice lives here." "You should go kiss that girl; no one else is going to." We talked too much, about what we would do after high-school, about what we believed, about rules and divisions and reclaiming things-- and the whole time, neither of us thought once. Who knows if we even meant a word we said? We were just moving, just moving. That was why it was good; crazy good. That was why it didn't matter when we stopped hanging out. It was the indecent spontaneousness of it that made us so mad and happy.

A couple days ago I ran into Anni at a show; she had these square black glasses and her mad red curls were cut short. I told her she looked beautiful but I didn't really mean it.