When she looks up at me, she has this light in her eyes, both giddy and conspiratorial, like the look a friend would give you 30 minutes after you’ve both taken mescaline and the patterns on the carpet start turning into Aztec fractals.
Fractals
Sharp
Sharp-nosed and tight. I didn’t know I had a type. I might describe what I meant if I weren’t sober. I like angles. I resist arcs. This is almost a self-hatred thing. I hate myself, but not like that. My dreams are consumed with sex and death. And I prefer the former.