They were here when we were someplace else, and we were not them but us. The costumes were probably supposed to spook, but somebody was smoking a cigarette and we couldn't stop laughing. Furthermore, I am not anyone, and to argue with distractions is a hard, short beginning. The liminality was lemony-fresh. Sex isn't anything that bleach, comet, and elbow grease can't fix, so we made a blanket-cave enclosing my bunk.
Words exist somewhere outside speech.
Quantitative presence was required but didn't signify, meaning I had to lie about getting laid. My all-nighter night was Thursday, and I didn't start smoking to meet people. They were me, but I wasn't, if ever I was, with ourselves and my body. The idea is less discomforting than the sensation. They closed our hands around condoms.