The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

Alice and Michael were quite the co-dependents back in 2005 and 2006, having gotten together after several Disco Biscuit shows where the combination of Alice’s cute blond hair, Mike’s worldy ways, and several different chemical concoctions conspired to fill the role left vacant when Western Europeans and their Colonists ceased believing in Cupid and his arrows. Firing of neurons and all that. Corresponding intake of breath. Iron filings all lining up in one direction and all that.

What began as a simple attraction, and then a simple engagement with each other’s bodies and minds, what began with each of them carefully walling off their faculties of judgment, not so hard, considering the chemical fog they were generally living under, a delay of judgment, maybe, a procrastination, and of course, that everpresent need of Other that will always privilege the present over any number of uncertain tomorrows, in short, a simple relationship without much investment, revolving around music and drugs, six months later had became a relationship of almost unending importance to them —

In short, they had fallen in love. Accidentally? Sure. It does not make it less important.

Six months after that, they had moved in together. Deeper and deeper. I saw them every now and again, at shows, or at Genie’s apartment — they were very attached to each other, co-dependent — still smoking plenty of pot sure, still half addled, but liking the same things and loving each other.

I moved away, but the 21st century uberwelt presses on. Three years later, Alice is in Rhode Island with somebody else. I do not know what happened to Michael.

I have lived 10,007 days. I will have lived 20,000 days on March 25, 2037. That is my mother’s birthday. She will be 80 years old. I will be 54, 9 months, and 16 days. Between now and then, everything in my life must happen.

I wander, newborn through the world. Until – her, my true companion, my best friend, my one and only. And then we walk the world together, her hand in my mine, looking up now and again to notice we’re getting older, rising with the dawn and sleeping with the dusk, again and again and again, for ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand days, watching hair thin, skin lose its strength, bones their vigor —

the fire of our love will not fade but will continue burning —

and then she dies. And then I sit by her grave a time. And then I die.

And that life is sad, but the best one can hope for.

And it has not yet happened. I have found hers, but lost them too early. Were they not the one, neither, or was I not the one, or are we Digital Nomads too thrifty with our hearts. Where is the one? The great fear of the single man at 27. Absurd and irrational. One third of my life is gone. Memento Mori. I don’t want to be alone when I go.

The Saddest Game in the Whole Wide World