you are the most selfish person i have ever met, but that's ok. the understanding that you exist in a universe alone, floating out amongst stars and lines, is necessary to our survival. comprehension likens itself to water.
wake up and wonder. wake up and doubt. wake up and feel guilty for the way i thought of your mouth when i was writing in helvetica. today is the same as the day before and will be the same as the day to come: i light the green signal fire and hope that you can see it from across the causeway. i light the signal fire and hope you do the same.
you are straight lines and perfect squares spread out across your bedroom floor cut with a pair of scissors sharp enough to draw blood. these bits of paper lay like land mines on carpet and it is such an effort to tip-toe closer, quiet, unseen and unheard like the good fuck i am.
she is, of course, the girl who knows her place.
you are the elements of typographic design. with a penchant for san serif fonts, you pay attention to kerning. you pay attention to the width of your counters. you pay attention to the height of your ascenders. everything is intentional and it's ok, because in the end, it's all about legibility. you make yourself painfully clear and when everything you say is apparent and obvious as soon as i get close enough to read i have no excuses anymore. i can never say i failed to comprehend.
you are far away and secret. a page in a diary. a typeface so perfect, you never even know it's there. helvetica incarnate.
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