good luck sailor,

forever/map long lost/without a compass/uncharted waters/stormy seas/clear skies/lighthous in the dark/simple black lines/found god at the bottom of a bottle/set sail/old shores/new courses

i'll see you below.

Lofty. That's what it was. Yes, absolutely.

His laughter could only be described as such. It came out and rose and fell at the same pace and in the same manner which one sees most often in the jaunty descent of an adolescent on stairs. The slight rise onto the ball of their foot before ultimately dropping down the next stair and rise-drop-rise-drop. It sounded natural enough. It wasn't forced -- the other end of the phoneline must be at least moderately clever. Probably some topical humour - work gossip, the inconvenient weather, some amusing anecdote from the morning. It wasn't genuine, though.
But I don't know in which way. It happened. It was lofty, not imaginary. It took place, there are at least three parties who could validate the laugh's existence. He'd wanted to laugh for whoever was listening. Does that make it genuine? Perhaps not every joke deserves a knee-slap and guffaw, he laughed to accommodate the amount of hilarity. Is it ingenuine because it wasn't that funny?

No. That doesn't make sense.

Is laughter not just a preferable form of social interaction? By laughing, was he not just maintaining social etiquette which, if done properly, has the same effect as involuntary belly-shaking laughter anyway?

I suppose it doesn't matter. Just so long as the sing-songy loftiness continues, society shall not collapse upon itself.

some things are for sharing.

it's a momentary unity, a split-second team.
the crisp, metallic sound of two cans opening simultaneously in an otherwise quiet room, both having anticipated the laughter with which to mask the force of illicit carbonation. the fizzle, then covered by rain and theatrical sighs.
a sideways glance and a tilt of the head, the silent acknowledgement that that second was ours.

no one will ever do for you what they didn't do for themselves.

Sure,

Ain't no wolf can sing like you, boy.
An' Betty don't matter like me.

But these things are bigger'n us
An' they don't wash away with the tide.

Can you steer that boat with a bottle, boy.
Cause I've taken my heart to the sea.

i miss that single bed,
which we turned into a stage.

a play of sincerity to
an audience of confusion but
the manuscript is lost and
the actors have been employed elsewhere

adventure becomes us

I want to take off, to leave everything and shirk the responsibilities with which we've shackled ourselves (we didn't know any better, how could we have known?) and live just to live. To sleep under stars and next to train tracks, rattling us as they go. To forget text messages and anything that's not this moment.

I want my life to be what's happening to me now, and not what happened or will happen, what has hurt or will hurt, what you do just to stay alive.

I want to get lost in arms and warmed in body heat, to explore the nooks and crannies of forests and mountains or even just the backseat of a car, where all we can see is our breath but we can hear civilization pass by while we sleep. But to hang our feet off cliffs! To bike or stroll or run or ride down paths well-worn by the free before us.

I want you to look at me and see what you keep for yourself, and for me to be able to do the same.

We'll come back, of course, we'll always come back. But with new expression, new life, new discoveries shared with equal weight and depth of feeling. How cliche to want those things which are nothing, the simple acts of living, to mean everything. And yet also, how refreshing. That just experiencing could be enough.

I want those arms to find me.

Sometimes, it's really simple.

Scared kept telling Happy not to let her heart wander so far off.

Happy told Scared to suck it.