The lawyer wears good suits and shaves her legs twice a week. The last time she was outside for more than twenty minutes was last March but I envy her collection of high tech sex toys on her bedside table.
The festival goer has done acid twice and pays for her hobbies by selling tarot readings. She feeds herself with her parents' money and she's not sure what's next.
The one who went to grad school to study classics hasn't worn shoes or a bra since high school. She can quote the entire first act of dante's inferno but she prefers the purgatorio. She creates colorful fantasty worlds in her head but her thesis always feels dry and emotionless. Her grand parents are rather proud of her.
The farmer gives the best advice. Her back is twisted and she doesn't remember the last time her muscles didn't ache. She hosts a monthly story telling event in her small community. She falls asleep as soon as she lies down in bed.
The festival goer has done acid twice and pays for her hobbies by selling tarot readings. She feeds herself with her parents' money and she's not sure what's next.
The one who went to grad school to study classics hasn't worn shoes or a bra since high school. She can quote the entire first act of dante's inferno but she prefers the purgatorio. She creates colorful fantasty worlds in her head but her thesis always feels dry and emotionless. Her grand parents are rather proud of her.
The farmer gives the best advice. Her back is twisted and she doesn't remember the last time her muscles didn't ache. She hosts a monthly story telling event in her small community. She falls asleep as soon as she lies down in bed.
The one who went on birthright is still in Europe. She au pairs with a family in France and hasn't been back to America since Trump got elected. She cries when it rains and she loves to dress up and go out clubbing.
The one who stayed in her home town lives with her two best friends. She spends a lot of time staring out the windows and she never learned to dance but she hosts themed dinner parties.
I wonder if I could learn how to live from them, or how not to live. Eighty years, one hundred years, seems so short; not long enough to fit all their lives into mine. Not long enough to fall in love, to lose my keys, to study, to write, to make art, to stare out into the rain and cry. Not long enough to visit Europe, return to my home town, hitch hike cross country, live in a big hippie house with all my friends and lovers, go broke, get rich and do it all again.
I never knew them but I miss them in the quiet seconds. And I love them. I hope they love me too.
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