Razvan Morar, Tales of Friends and Things

Scattered all over the scape of this revolving Earth, and we are still together in the extremely elastic spirit we’ve molded. We don’t miss one another, we don’t talk, we don’t bother. Love has bound us for good, long ago.


We liked the high grounds, getting higher in the woods that touched the lip of downtown, away from the fools and the “screw you’s” thrown out of taxi cabs of which windows reflected the glistening sun above home. We spent warm days in the woods, spent nights talking, drinking, browsing chemicals. We realized that fear stirs up interesting subjects.


The fear came from the bears, but we’ve seen so many bears that we’d yell after bears, run away from bears and even try to feed some of them. Real fear came from the fools. Things would get crazy at times, but never crazy enough to mock a crock or trunk a junky. Winter blasted out of nowhere, shifting our weight from light to chunky, and we carved infinity symbols in white powder, skiing in pairs, in patterns of eight. Our bindings were tight and the weight on our knees kept in front. Capricious turns would bring our knees up over bumps and lumps between trees. Laughing.


Suddenly, the skiis stop in a mud trap after high speed and send a jerk flying in a dream like fashion, until his face touches mud covered with a thin layer of snow. We see blood through our red tinted goggles. We see a massacre, but the crimson lining reveals the jerk, laughing, spitting mud and laughing; an intuitive cheesecake who wants a midair collision.


We come down, hung over and strung out, we get to our flustered girls, who complain “less art, you genres!”. Spoon kisses, they know the quantity of our spirit is finite, and they prepare to ditch us some night to get a better grasp on handling people like us.


In our scattered dreams of hiding behind doors there are righteous screams that transmute everything into gold.

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