luce

"When we finished high school, Luce, we knew less than a hummingbirds-wings' amount of anything. We knew less than nothing about nothing. We slow-danced, felt all moon and magnolia, all hip on hip and hot on skin. But we were kids who ate the tinned soup our parents simmered, who spent our summers just—just—just hanging out. I can't count the things we didn't know. Things about working—about the persistence of working—the way it never stops. About really being alone out there. About how you can pack up and leave. Or come back. About what it mans to be poor, Luce. Or, as well, what it's like having money—what it's like to order drinks and appetizers and desserts and just do it.  Lucy, we didn't know. We knew cricket-wing, moth-wing, less than paper. We knew zero. So how the fuck, Luce, did we find each other? That's what I want to know. Luce, I love you and that's what I want to know."

—Sean Michaels; Said the Gramophone