When you are twenty two everyone you know will finally stop shitting you: they will admit that they are all mind readers, and your whole life has been planned out in secret meetings, a record of your innermost thoughts tacked to the wall of their lair like an illuminated map of bombing targets. It sounds sinister at first, but they remind you that they all went through it too--the awkward intervention ceremony with the floury store-bought cake, all the shame when they found out that their parents knew what they did during all those hours alone in the basement.
They went through it, and now, that doctor administering the anesthesia, he'll help you be like them. You know that girl, Amy? Listen to her tomorrow night, while you lean against the drum of her stomach and pretend you're dreaming. The first time's tough, so listen hard. The words she whispers into your hair, her fingertips' soft calligraphy: they are not a language you can speak anymore. If you pay attention, her thoughts will be a split fortune cookie in the palm of your mind. She will give you permission to do it, to break her heart.
Photo is by Sam Taylor Wood.
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