Holy hells, Roger just called me, glittering Kajou of the year 2000. Rom and the Bomb, fluffy hair and all. Jenn might remember the album. I haven’t heard this man’s voice directly in half a decade. I didn’t recall him as sounding so french. This city is a forest with every tree an angel beauty moment. I’m going to be invincible how youth is supposed to be, not scared of leaving the house, not intangibly terrified of picking up the phone. I’ve got a spot to map, marked by the cut of a fingernail. I’ve got certainties I didn’t before. When I think it’s real, it’s real. I can pick this up and hold it up to shine, crystal refraction blinding in light of the silver knife edge that vanished under the weight of breath. Five years ago, Kajou was my best friend. He was a motorcycle ride at midnight. I hope he still is. I miss that wind, the peculiar shutting out of sound the helmet provides. We were riding to Lee’s Palace once and across the intersection to our right was a man with a lizard row of electric blue metal spikes on his helmet. We nodded in tandem to him and bumped heads. I had bare arms and barely any skirt it was so thin against the oppressive freeing heat. I’m going out to the Drake to meet him, why does every city have a drake hotel? but he might be at Lot 16, a place that Montilee and Doug and I drove past on Sunday in our weave around the religious blocking off the streets, in our quest to stalk our friend down. We made fun of it and the goth looking Good Charlotte wish-we-were’s hauling gear out of a station wagon out front.
He’s going to call Nick, see if he’ll come too. When I brought back pictures of him, Mishka thought he was so cute that she couldn’t understand why I came back at all. I never understood, I simply saw a blonde elf.