24-Hour Periphery People
Went to a going-away apartment-party for a coworker tonight, attended largely by a startlingly high number of office colleagues in their mid to late twenties; had a good time, though not without the inevitable ten minutes spent at the fringe of a crowd, munching on baby carrots in an attempt to appear not completely unoccupied.
Gal with a sweet and wiry indie-rock voice plugs in an electric guitar and sings; 80%-ironic conversations with various guys involve endless deflections of straight answers; some lobe of my brain determines to convince me that the gal who professes sympathetic interests and the same difficulty with reading maps is Someone You Should Spend the Rest of Your Life With, Don't Come Up With Excuses; I admit to never having read Beckett; room buzzes, dance music on the CD player, throat getting a bit sore; more baby carrots. I definitely did not notice that guy with the trench coat, Mets cap, and plastic-rimmed glasses come in, and why don't his eyes focus on anything in particular?
Later, in the car, I narrowly avoid getting onto I-91 North and shortly thereafter find myself on a foggy, dead-end industrial road down by the river, listening on the radio to ambient and minimalistic music of unknown provence. Impressions of distant refinery buildings lumber up out of the mist. And I think, This is very evocative, but I should drive someplace where I know where I am.
Gal with a sweet and wiry indie-rock voice plugs in an electric guitar and sings; 80%-ironic conversations with various guys involve endless deflections of straight answers; some lobe of my brain determines to convince me that the gal who professes sympathetic interests and the same difficulty with reading maps is Someone You Should Spend the Rest of Your Life With, Don't Come Up With Excuses; I admit to never having read Beckett; room buzzes, dance music on the CD player, throat getting a bit sore; more baby carrots. I definitely did not notice that guy with the trench coat, Mets cap, and plastic-rimmed glasses come in, and why don't his eyes focus on anything in particular?
Later, in the car, I narrowly avoid getting onto I-91 North and shortly thereafter find myself on a foggy, dead-end industrial road down by the river, listening on the radio to ambient and minimalistic music of unknown provence. Impressions of distant refinery buildings lumber up out of the mist. And I think, This is very evocative, but I should drive someplace where I know where I am.
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