"I Will Follow You Into the Dark" Death Cab for Cutie

At 15 I thought by 17, for sure by 21. By 19 at 25, which I knew was the age when they'd let you rent a car without a youth fee. By 23, I had glimpsed it, and the murky photograph, worthless to most who held it, reminds me of the way my arm dangled off and dropped the book on the floorboards. It was the second story balcony, and I had no idea what I would face the following day. I read as slowly as possible and fell asleep.

The first thing he said--I believe it was six in the morning--was, "Did you get some?"

I smiled and said no.

We looked older, sure, the red and purple lights of the bar, more forgiving than the sun, which penetrated even the high altitude mist. Yes, you could tell her age if you looked at the skin around her eyes and yes, you could tell from the slack of my face that I probably had not been drinking enough water.

To want something I'm convinced it's a need. To need something it challenges my faith. To say nothing and walk away. When you walked inside that room and felt the heat of a disturbance that had since passed. The residue of movement, the fingerprint of something frenetic. Despite what the untouched bedsheets indicate, you felt--and knew--that something had just happened there.

If life is a sinusoidal wave, and amplitude is the degree to which we allow ourselves to feel. If the x-axis paid close attention to the years 15, 19, 23 please add 27.