I met a girl who was like a Joan Miró painting; all colors and shapes and symbols, arranged in such a way as I'd never seen before. Her speech was a surrealist conglomeration of words and phrases, often without any rational links between them. Every word she spoke and every movement she made were wholly unexpected and often unintelligible and I adored every second of it. It's like being with a beautiful random phrase generating app. But, you know, good.
And by spending time with this girl who was like a Joan Miró painting I've been able to borrow a new life. For a week I got to throw away the anxieties, the doubts, and the baseless morality of my world and experience a dadaist lifestyle of incomplete thoughts brought to life, of heavy laziness. And of course, drinking.
And she would spend so much of this sleeping on me and I would spend so much of it laying awake in the night, trying to find truth in the patterns of my ceiling. And now that it's over, I'm not sure what to make of it. I'm so unsure now of all those things that I held to be true. Because even though I never understood a god damn thing that she was talking about, I loved every second of it.
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