I love you!

. . . but my judgement has been questioned at times.
It's still love, though, ain't it?
They will indeed judge me. And they'll judge you too.
But how good is their judgement?

When you get to my building, take the elevator, and I'll be the one standing in his cubicle alternating between two activities:

1. Throwing puches and kicks at imaginary foes
2. Negotiating (negotiating with thin fuckin air)

Alone in my cubicle. Too far gone. Too far gone for a bonus or a raise or my own personal helicopter launch pad. Too far gone for tight skirts and desk-top doggy-style. Too far gone for the two ball in the corner off two rails. Too far gone for dive fifty-five, left end look-up on two. Too far gone to ruck over. Too far gone for pop shove-its and bong hits. Too far gone for fakey. Too far gone for fifty-fifty. Too far gone for the warm weird feeling I get walking by a church. Too far gone for driving fast, for sniffing the electrons off of pay phones from previous calls. Too far gone for looking up a weird word and hearing it used the very same day in nearly perfect context. Too far gone for crazy, hillarious comments by an elevator mechanic on a shakey ride to the roof. Too far gone for mountain overlook hand jobs, beautiful shots that are so fast they look slow, perfect sprints and nobody catchin me, beautiful people - beautiful through and through, who are noble and magniloquent and grandiloquent and who would stay awake days keeping you cry-free, beautiful people who would give you a kiss on the cheek that you'll remember on the day you die.

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