Unknown sender in this context, of course, is Lyla (Lila?) - She’s the palmistry professional I see sometimes when I’m drunk and I have questions, and I guess I’ve been there enough times that if she sees a little gloss or sheen on my eyes, she makes the findings a little more personal.
That’s fine, Lyla (it’s what I’m going with.), I don’t see what you see in the glass or the cards or the smoke from that vanilla-jasmine incense (or is that your perfume?)
I don’t wear enough silks or hide out in enough buildings that people ignore or take for granted every day, I guess. It’s easy to pass, this place.
I don’t see what you see when you say it’ll be my first time to really see the jungle.
I don’t know how to respond when you say that maybe all those mid-90’s songs really are correspondence directly to me.
I don’t see a pinched and distorted smaller me in the clear sphere, dissolving into some distant pocket in the depths of this makeshift desk.
But I don’t guess I have a problem spying what you call the horizon. Easy reads like letting bygones be bygones, and releasing the general state of dissolution that found me wandering in here with a pocket-bottle of French vodka, anyways. Damnit, Lyla.
When the rumbling started, I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear your voice, though I’m certain they were your words.
I don’t know, the trappings of some vague and distant prediction, some eerie nightingale song about the way this weekend is supposed to work.
Maybe it’s just the aftershock, or maybe the rumble I hear is the just the distant roar of thousands, some dialogue with thunder.
Well, you said it would be my day and my week, if I’d just take it.
I guess you’re always right.
Thanks again, Lyla.