"LittleShvartsman : meyouwatchouteverybody"

I'm sure you can understand me when I say that there always comes a point in the week where your friends have become parrots in the back of your head, squawking about the most unnecessary things life's loves and losses drag along. And on any other day, you'd gladly squawk with them, worry about the itty bitty indiscernible details of junior class drama. But of course, there are days where you'd much rather relax and philosophize, and forget about the dirt that has accumulated on your clothing, inside your head, over your heart.

I call up Boris. Tonight, it'll all fit together. It does, as I knew it would, the second I drop my car off at his house and enter his. The parrots and their noises can't penetrate the glass windows of the longest car known to America. Sucks; maybe next time.

Drum and bass, white mocha burning tongues, The Egyptian. Art Blakey. Jazz jazz. What's the real reason for music, for expression, for in and ex haling? On top of the world mixed with superiority equals total ego trip: but a well-deserved one, at worst. Sue us, we're above you. European soccer, David Beckham in pose number 65 (in navy blue suit) equals greater than David Beckham with soccer ball scoring last week's goal. Nobody really knows why, it just happens to be how it is. It JUST is. That's life; it is or it isn't: the details don't matter.

Life… is.

The disappearing curfew calls. Too much of a good thing is harmful, I leave.

There's my cashmere silver Saab. Unlock with electric key, lock with left button. Look around to make sure nobody creepy will slam me down. Turn key, the parrot life's returning. On engine: off bliss. Mix CD's, Christina Aguilera: and I happily sing along.

I reverse and K-turn out of his dead-end driveway. Accelerate, brake, glide. Stop: Left turn. Back to normal, I suppose.

Is this life? This is everyday life.

But it's black and white, I notice as I turn again. The details seem to matter wildly in this black and white life. Too much grey area, I guess.

So, my cashmere silver automobile fits in perfectly.

As I knew it would.

This isn't life, I realize. There's something else…

Something like le Coup de Monde and background music and thinking about everything other than photographs and the textbook recipe.

I presume.
Life… is.

Turn left into driveway. Welcome home.