i like my eggs hard-boiled, oh oh oh oh my gosh.

Having to wait ten minutes for something to cook while you’re hungry and craving another thing entirely seems like an eternity. “Eternity”, it’s such a romantic, poetic sounding word. Like a passionate exhale in a frosty winter night, our breaths little puffs of smoke in the icy air, or fogging up windows in confined spaces, overly warmed from body heat. Sweltering passionate exchange. If ten minutes can seem like an eternity, what does that make four hours seem like? Close my eyes, flashback to the previous night, inhale the musky smell of machine-generated smoke that, rather than serving its purpose in creating atmosphere (however one is supposed to ‘create’ something like atmosphere, which is supposed to be natural, is beyond me), instead obscures our vision in a slightly disconcertingly irritating way, a spark of annoyance tingeing the fun. We dance on, decidedly ignoring the agonizing ache of feet forced into instruments of torture, because they’re pretty. We compromise our values, allowing complete strangers to grab and grope, jostle and brush, because they’re pretty too. we compromise the decision to be frugal, because consumption of the swirling coloured liquids, regardless of the absurdity of the price attached, makes everything appear all the more prettier. And dark corners and repetitive beats and matrix-like green lights dance around and around like a music box on speed in my tired and tested brain, and I fight off the urge to sleep because it’s conversation I really crave. Ten minutes.

and yes, i am aware this is a bloody great chunk of writing. suck it up.