Obscurities. Clichés. I think. How my inside and outside seem too damn different.

I have to pee.

I shiver. From my arms to my knees.

I stare out and search for cities against the glare of the reflections beside me. The yellow of my mother’s book under the light nearly blinds me; later it’s the only reflection I see. If I press my face against the window far enough I can make out the right wing from the natural darkness, proof of something more, proof of something out there. Its comforting because it remains constant as the plane moves through the shades of the dark everything, almost like the everything around us is moving instead of the other way around. Blasting us through time. I laugh, considering the circumstances. That’s what it feels like. What I want it to feel like.

I listen to generic teen Disney drama, courtesy of Rae’s iPod. Miley Cyrus tells herself she’s a rockstar and Avril Lavigne whines through a rocky transition into her head voice. But anything can help to settle me, even if it is blaring shit. I want Broken Social Scene. I want Bob Dylan. Kimya Dawson. Rogue Wave. Something of some sort of substance, at least genesis, self defining autobiography in the form of musical notes. Something heavy enough to lean on. It’s taken me too long to realize that I need something to lean on.

But I can’t have that; my iPod’s dead. So I listen to younger would-be parts of my life and write myself to sleep, at least out of this headache. Ha. I make my own drama.

The Ramones say You Don’t Come Close. You don’t come close, Grandma. That’s Love’s Lost Guarantee.