You are a solitary person, and I’m afraid nobody here can help you. You like to be on your own. As a teen, you wandered the darkened streets of your neighborhood, a second-hand trench coat wrapped around your shoulders and your fingers wrapped around an old kazoo you kept in your pocket. Your friends mostly stayed at the party.
I’m afraid nobody here can help you with that, or with the fact that so many nights spent mooning around will imprint those streets indelibly onto your dreamscape, so that well into your twenties every dream you have takes place at night, wandering those empty pavements. Sometimes, in the dreams, you can fly. There’s simply nothing we can do.
Nobody here can help you when you leave the party early. And though you sensibly climb onto the passenger seat of Kati’s truck — because you know, after that one time, that if you try to walk home alone Gene will simply follow you, secretly and at a distance, until two blocks from your house you catch sight of this shadowy figure and run, uphill, for your life — though you accept your ride home, still you stare out the window into the yellow-lit night and wish, sort of, that you were out there, barefoot and wandering.
There is simply nobody here who can help you with that. Let me connect you to Corporate.
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