It was a Kerouac kind of night, in which everything went wrong and it couldn't be more perfect. The conversation flowed far smoother than the traffic, contained within laughter and that connection that can only be found between good friends within the confines of a car or across a table. It's as if we as people are incapable of being truly open unless there is a physical obstruction, a car seat, an open pizza box, to utilize as a distracting crutch when it becomes too personal to face directly.

That's okay I kind of like it that way. Feels more real.

I live for nights like this.

ink :: graphite