JULIAN CORRECTION

I think they are in love. Inevitabley, I think that it could have been me. But he's changed--
very utterly and sadly. His eyes have grown quite dull, and his hands and forarms swollen with apathetic abuse. I look and grieve with my nostalgia disease, for the man I love. He seems so small and weakened by the accumulation of filth, but sometimes I see glimpses--
It's funny because in my youth (fishnet daze), with terror and awe my mouth would clamp up and only like a fool would the words come spilling from my eyes. But there's none of that now, and now I make him laugh and joke like old friends, and that's when I see the spark of life in his eyes and the slight curve of smirk on THAT mouth, and it comes back in surreal bursts. I am thrown backwards by my conceptions of his ornery and subtle moods, and I know I've been around him long enough and must leave to write. Some god sent me here to repair that four-year old wound--
Now I observe his exhaustion, have no idea if he thinks on me with any affection but it doesn't really matter. The sadness (benign and loving) overtakes everything. And when I see them spending the day in bed, holding, for that's the only physical contact they can muster, shots draining the intense brilliance he once portrayed, I only want them to stay there clutching one another, just barely above water. But for myself, I'll catch him before I go, and ask two questions:

...and the answers were everything I ever needed to know...and I should trust myself more.