Camila + Haruki

I waited three bloody days to fly standby on Flight 1440, using three EMW’s for my ticket (which exceeded the meteor inflation index by a lot).  Inside the HK Hovercraft, I thought about the smell of Camila’s body heat in the summer heat, the way she dragged pharmaceutical-grade e-joints, her month-long silence, and her tumescent mole that looked like a nub of rare chocolate.  The last time I’d felt such longing for someone, such linear fear, was back when I first found out about the Impact Hypothesis.