paris for the weekend

i am deep in thought.

i am looking through a virtual photo-album i feel obliged to peruse after being sent the link by a friend i have been tardy in my correspondence with.

famous landmarks and picnics and pretty places i have been to, but don't remember being anything like this.

the phone rings.

i am ssstartled to the p-p-point of spillinging my w..w..ords in a stutteryry nervous mmemess the stranger on the other end may think is my nature.

today it is.

i manage to answer the query. i hang up the phone and return to the smiley pictures making me trip up on the inside.

the faces express nothing.

this contact removes me. no, no i must still be confused. this contact makes me feel removed. remote.

yes.

these photos sent to my address, jammed in among a wad of others, makes me strange.

argh, makes me strange? no ... er ... think ... think ... what is it?

i am more remote and removed from my friend than i was before i clicked to be redirected.


dear jimmy, you look so well. fighting fit.

and amy? happy on your arm.

europe in the fall is nothing like i remember. still.

still, these aren't my pictures.


save as draft. save as draft.

this contact is a fake flower i understand for its sentiment, but gives me nothing more than a chill, a scary clown.

we are stranger strangers.