Secret sharer

Currently listening to "Mr. Radio" by ELO. For some reason, when I listen to this song, I imagine myself prancing hand in hand with Ziggy Stardust on the surface of Mars. I love it.

As habitual, I get this unexplainable urge to write with time I can't really spare. A meeting with Gauss, Kirchhoff, and Ampere looms over me like a porcupine-creating rain cloud, and although I have utmost respect for these fine men, I can't really see us being great friends in the near future. Things would get too electric, if you know what I mean. Kekule would be a more appropriate match. Or even better, Nietzche or Kierkegaard. Speaking of which, I remember people always used to ask me this question and I would never be able to settle on a response: If you could meet anyone in the world, dead or alive, who would it be and why? That's like asking me what my favorite film or band is, or even worse, what my favorite food is. There's never a single answer. But despite all odds, I think I finally have found the right answer.

Tactfully,
T.J.

He, She, and Them

Together they walked, into the screen, hand in hand.
The grey sky was illuminated by the lights of a sleepy city.
They were lost in confusion,
were the lights real?
Or was it a trick of the eye?
They didn't know,
but they didn't care.
It was a night of unspoken thoughts and unasked questions.
The film gave them thoughts.
The actors asked their questions.
But speak them aloud?
They dared not.
She in her yellow shirt, crying inside,
dying to know if she meant something to him.
He with his clouded spectacles, crying outside,
wondering if he still meant something to her.
Together they walked,
in all their confusion,
out of the screen and into the dark city night.
No more acting,
no more scripts,
just he, she, and them.