Ramblings from the tilde

When All The Colors Will Bleed Into One

It was like 1987 and we were in that dark and seedy club inside the alley below the mall, the one with the cheesy name, kissing and cuddling and doing business as usual, probably drunk. Then U2 started singing.

"This is exactly how I feel", I said. "Feel about what?", she said. I took another sip of vodka. "I still haven't found what I'm looking for". The bar was noisy as fuck.

"And what are you looking for?", she said, visibly bored. "That is the problem, I still haven't found it", said I. "I don't think that's the meaning of that phrase", she replied, "They know what they're looking for, but they still haven't found it. You're one step behind, if I understand you correctly". I shrugged and then kissed her, her breath tasting like tobacco and beer.

I started feeling sick and depressed like many other times. She lit a cigarette. Depeche Mode started singing _I sometimes wish I was dead_. I said "Don't you hate when all songs talk about yourself?".

She wasn't what I was looking for, though those days I wished she was.