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Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

There are a lot of machines in the city. Some big, some small, some people and in direct contrast with their decrepit image, alive. They're really the only things that still seem alive at nighttime when the overcast blues and ruddy metals of the neighborhoods all melt into one unintelligible shade of midnight. Humans still mill about in the evenings, but there is a certain quiet even in the cheers from the pig pens or screaming from the depths. Each scenario is wrapped into its own bubble of late hour serenity simply waiting to be popped by daybreak.

It was always in one of these bubbles I found myself there with you. The lights from those machines would be buzzing, casting their subtle green glow. Often they would expose the chipped varnish of the wooden walkways and splinters of the bench on that patio we shared. The vending machine would shake, it would cough and sputter as a can of bubbling citrus tumbled through its internal maze until the prized drink reached the silver basket it had aimed for. And the can would sit there. It would just sit there.

It sat there until I picked it up, tossed it around to feel the lukewarm chill on my hands. I would always wonder if some part of it protested when I opened it, because with every click and concerning slice there was a bite into my own thumb. Sometimes it would bleed and I would reminisce between the two familiar scents of metal as I went to take my own seat. And you. You would always tell me to be more careful. You'd tell me that I knew how to do it more safely. I was just stubborn, risque, childish. I would admit to all this yet still when the inevitable time would come for you to collect your own beverage and see the inescapable outcome of being unable to puncture it, you'd ask for me to open it. I didn't mind.

But just then that wouldn't have happened yet. If I had just sat, just started to take a sip of that drink then you would still be there, standing in front of a screen. You could find those screens anywhere, but we liked them best there. We liked them best here or in the skinny alleys no one else walked, the small pockets that no else talked or knew about except us and everyone else who really mattered.

The wiring of those screens were always a little off so we learned quickly that what you pressed was rarely the title that would pop up over those offensively bright cartoons, but that was fine. There were some personal classics, our urban fairy tales as we labeled them, and a rare sense of giddiness whenever we found something for the very first time. Sometimes it was only music that would play and the blank visage would paint you in a beige to match the concrete. It was funny when that happened. You would listen in the comfort of images of your own invention or split the burden into two pairs of buds so that we could both laugh at the oddity of it all.

Yes, I watched with you sometimes. Other times you watched with her. She was your friend too, a best friend. I could always hear you two talking over the silence about the tape you could never find even after reel after reel of images spun by all those years. I'd still like to find it for you. If we ever get back here. After all of this is done we can be back here and I'll find it for you, but if we never come back here I want you to know that I cared. I want you to know that I'll find it for you. I need you to know that. I need you to know.

I care. I need you to know that. I need you to know that I'll find you. I need you to know we'll be back here when it's over. I'll find you.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

There are a lot of machines in the city. Some big, some small, some people and in direct contrast with their decrepit image, alive. They're really the only things that still seem alive at nighttime when the overcast blues and ruddy metals of the neighborhoods all melt into one unintelligible shade of midnight. Humans still mill about in the evenings, but there is a certain quiet even in the cheers from the pig pens or screaming from the depths. Each scenario is wrapped into its own bubble of late hour serenity simply waiting to be popped by daybreak.

It was always in one of these bubbles I found myself there with you. The lights from those machines would be buzzing, casting their subtle green glow. Often they would expose the chipped varnish of the wooden walkways and splinters of the bench on that patio we shared. The vending machine would shake, it would cough and sputter as a can of bubbling citrus tumbled through its internal maze until the prized drink reached the silver basket it had aimed for. And the can would sit there. It would just sit there.

It sat there until I picked it up, tossed it around to feel the lukewarm chill on my hands. I would always wonder if some part of it protested when I opened it, because with every click and concerning slice there was a bite into my own thumb. Sometimes it would bleed and I would reminisce between the two familiar scents of metal as I went to take my own seat. And you. You would always tell me to be more careful. You'd tell me that I knew how to do it more safely. I was just stubborn, risque, childish. I would admit to all this yet still when the inevitable time would come for you to collect your own beverage and see the inescapable outcome of being unable to puncture it, you'd ask for me to open it. I didn't mind.

But just then that wouldn't have happened yet. If I had just sat, just started to take a sip of that drink then you would still be there, standing in front of a screen. You could find those screens anywhere, but we liked them best there. We liked them best here or in the skinny alleys no one else walked, the small pockets that no else talked or knew about except us and everyone else who really mattered.

The wiring of those screens were always a little off so we learned quickly that what you pressed was rarely the title that would pop up over those offensively bright cartoons, but that was fine. There were some personal classics, our urban fairy tales as we labeled them, and a rare sense of giddiness whenever we found something for the very first time. Sometimes it was only music that would play and the blank visage would paint you in a beige to match the concrete. It was funny when that happened. You would listen in the comfort of images of your own invention or split the burden into two pairs of buds so that we could both laugh at the oddity of it all.

Yes, I watched with you sometimes. Other times you watched with her. She was your friend too, a best friend. I could always hear you two talking over the silence about the tape you could never find even after reel after reel of images spun by all those years. I'd still like to find it for you. If we ever get back here. After all of this is done we can be back here and I'll find it for you, but if we never come back here I want you to know that I cared. I want you to know that I'll find it for you. I need you to know that. I need you to know.

I care. I need you to know that. I need you to know that I'll find you. I need you to know we'll be back here when it's over. I'll find you.