You looked up them like they were Marsians wearing the suit of a human face, pretending to be human. Like you were eating pandesal, and yet they were eating Neruda for breakfast, Carolyn Forche for lunch and sensibility for dinner, and death, love, stupidity, and sexuality for midnight debauchery.
Somewhat, they were detached, not walking the same streets you were walking, and yet your rational mind said that was too sentimental, and you argued, right, maybe, they were walking the same street, but it didn't arrive to them like the same street. Had you seen the same moment there? —the same "symmetry", and how you interpret such, whether symmetrically or not?
And here the word arrived, "smitten", of how battered it was like somebody you didn't personally knew, but they rumored that she was. And she was smitten too. And she turned her life into a poem whether it was a compliment or a bad criticism. Poem—to be modified with determiner a, or the imposing the, or just a. Take your pick.
They were loud, and you were too and even louder after gulping two bottles of redhorse, which was an act of abnormalcy.
Had you known earlier that they were more human than anybody was, you should have delved into their realm earlier than "earlier". Was it Atwood who said, it was a misconception labeling writers as omniscient when in fact, they didn't know everything, that's why they write.
And it was three in the morning, and my head was full of Redhorse.
Forgive my harangue.
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