When I was five, I learned how to die.
Now, I am watching the girl on the other side. I like her. I know this, because my heart is beating a little bit faster. Brown hair, strict eyes behind glasses, blue. She looks at me and smiles. The gesture moves through her, the flow of lips and eyes. I smile back. I won’t do anything more.
And then, she and I, we lived together for a year by chance. We were roommates, we liked each other. I even love her, although I still don’t know what that means.
I also love the girl on the other side.
A dead whale stranded on the coast of Oregon. His body was ransacked, predators had fed on his flesh, birds followed quickly and the humans stood and watched. He came to know of this by accident, as he was driving along the coastal road. At home he stood by the window and watched the ocean and the two trees in front of his house. He would never write anything here.
Sometime before, she must have driven her bike. She remembered the sound of the song in her head clearly and she knew she watched the road beyond. The song spoke to her, but she didn’t hear anything, she didn’t feel anything. The road and the song and she herself were meaningless. It didn’t upset her. She did something that day.
Five years later a rock hit another rock.
Now you learned how to die.