Let me tell you about the time Samantha came up from the lake. We didn’t know where she was. It was long past midnight and our fire had dwindled to coals that burned orange in the wind. But it was hot summer time, August, and the fire was for a place to gather more than warmth, for something to huddle around, something to do, but we’d found other things to do by then. So had Samantha.
Some people just did shit like that. Took off. Had midnight backwoods vision quests. Figured it was Sam’s turn. No one was watching her. Surely not me. Not Mike. We were lying on the dirt looking up at the stars rapping about aliens and life and feeling the life in us like the heat of liquor going down your throat, but more, everywhere. Each cell lit up, hot, alive. We were like aliens that might find another planet someday, that some other consciousness might be imagining from their own terra firma, and we were aliens to the whole ordeal and undertaking of making a life for yourself. Such pressure in every decision. The future was ours to imagine, but we didn’t want to plan and imagine and fucking decide. We wanted to be. That book Be. Here. Now. made it all seem so simple. It wasn’t simple for us. It wasn’t probably feeling so fucking simple for Sam. . . .
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