Things have a way of turning out, just as I have a way of twisting things in. Like bubblegum dreams, I think of ways over and under, how to get by, making the least number of mistakes possible. But of course it’s impossible. I like impossibility, it only intensifies Hope. You remember Hope, don’t you? If you stand on hope’s shadow then the sun must be behind your back.
But this isn’t about Hope. This is about myself. This is about things that matter, and don’t matter. This is about a nice, low-key lamplight replacing the harsh flourescent glare of impersonal spaces. And this is about more days, more months, more time. And this is about twirling the ends of your wishes around each finger, making tight pink circles, then stretching these wishes as far as you can, arms wide, like pink bubblegum elastic dreams.
And finally the bubblegum springs back, its length shortened, sweetness intensified : Probably, this is about me, and who knows, this could be about you.
