I was lying flat on my back on the hardwood floor in the front hallway.
(No, this isn't porn.)
Jacob walked by and stopped and we listened to the crackle of the fire from the living room. I can only hear it when I hold my breath.
What are you thinking, princess?
The usual existentialist thoughts.
I don't think you even know what that means.
It's one of my favorite words.
But can you define it? I have a hard time with it, which is why I'll never teach philosophy.
Mr. Kerouac, the point is not to define but to blow your mind.
You write just like him sometimes.
I come from a long line of hippies, gypsies, beatniks and freaks, preacher boy. It's expected. I'm just too cynical and jaded to admit it.
Right, and you're much easier to philosophize with over wine or hallucinogenics.
Since that day has long passed, let's mourn for it then, and find a new pastime.
Naked twister?
I was just going to say that.
