Juliette on a Longwave Radio

give me the colours of a different light
give me the colours grey and blue

So you learn. You find that at 50 you're twice as randy as at 20 and there's no explanation that you can think of between the beginning episodes of alzheimer's that plague your swiss cheese brain, the folds stuck together, overstarched and ironed, locked down portholes. It's only fair to hate life at that point, so you join a 12 step program only to find that there's more than 37 steps up from the sidewalk [irony]. The door opens and you smell the alcoholics and realise this isn't the room for you, because no one ever thought that a desire to be alive could be an addiction, unhealthy in its insistence upon existing, in complete denial that addiction is a possibility.
and blah blah blah, yakkity schmakkity, swing the golf club, wave, smile, try not to trip off the stage.
She swirled two coppers around each other as if milling about in the corner of a square, around each other in a planetary scraping on the formica following the indentations with her eyes, the milk-laden, black-scarred flashes of intelligent emotion that she allowed flit for momentary distraction from the scrolling circle to the hovering colors that registered around her. People move in and out of us as this, shapely and dull. Rainstorms drown out roses with the crackle and trickle-down damp, sheeting away the vivid taste of poppies and crocuses.
I never said I was the perfect child, and if I had, I was grossly mistaken. I treat my life as if it were a set of errands, a list of tasks that attain something often unrelated to the final destination. I do as I go and I go as I please. Never claimed that I would complete even the smallest bit of what everyone asked me to, never claimed I would take the best or fastest route from a to b, z to l, London to Newark. That is the way to be lived and to live. You must breathe incidentally, fall purposely, act madly, and never be afraid to be inane or cheeky. It'’s costly to be regretful, making all those witnesses disappear, David Copperfield only works at prime rates. I may have said I loved or was loved, but that was my entire fault for being caught up in the language. I may have mentioned that I was happy or thrilled, but I might have felt that tomorrow was going to be my last incidental breath. I might have overlooked my chance to say screaming that I would be a jackass, roller-skates, shopping carts, and all, but I always figured I had the charm. I never said what it was going to be, but always was kind enough to do a play by play with afterthoughts. I never said that id never say, just how i was intending it to be coherent. A little faith would be nice.