When you push the speed limit and the country fields begin to blur, and the streetlights switch on in the pinkish skies, it’ll begin to get dark. I’ll be in the passenger seat, somewhere. And in the dark, you’ll go to parties and need air; you’ll go outside and the air will be acrid and opaque with cigarette fumes, and I’ll be huddled up around a corner, out of sight, foetal and bopping to the broken social scene. And you’ll go home, you’ll return to the polaroids dotted across your duvet, hit with hard light — the tainted, filtered lens through which we saw everything — and I’ll want you to look for me. Look for me in all those pictures, look for me over your shoulder, in your gappy, toothy laugh, because I promise, I have been looking for you.

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