I'm getting ready to start reading "Fifty Shades of Grey". I have a feeling I could probably write something far trashier, more sensual, and something that would hold the attention span of both men and women for hours, but to be honest, I'm just too damn lazy; Aside from that, it would probably take away the pleasure I get from writing if I had to actually do it.
I read just briefly what it was about, and for a moment, it reminded me of, well, we'll call him "Nashville." Damn, I miss Nashville. He's gone now. I haven't seen him in a few months, he isn't even in Nashville anymore, but I know that's where his heart will always be. Mine? Well, a piece of mine will always be with him, and the time we had together, albeit too brief. That's for another time, though.
Do you miss me, Nashville? Do you still think of me when you see a Mad Men commercial, or a buxom redhead you know you shouldn't have naughty thoughts about? I sure hope so. I still have your texts on my phone, as innocent as they were, they're there. I hope your move went smoothly. I'm lying like hell. I hope it sucked, because I never wanted you to leave me. You knew it, and I told you told that. I know why you left, and I respect it. I respect you too much to even try to have kept you here. There's just one thing I want to know, is our picture up on your wall where you are now?
“Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.”
― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves
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