Love them, hate them, fuck them. Usually in that order.

A great wave

Ungloved hand in ungloved hand, walking along the river Spree as we talk of Hunter S Thompson's great wave: That progressive optimism that defined a bygone era. What it must have felt like to be part of that zeitgeist in San Francisco.

I squeeze his hand when a breeze blows by, and his hand tightens around mine.

He's so adorable, as we talk of where we've been. Him two new jobs every year, the spirit of spontaneity chasing a path for which he can never see two steps ahead, devoid of certainty. Me marching down my predetermined way. Every instance of spontaneity an accident.

We ruminate on how it must have felt to be part of this inevitability washing over the world. When victory of the new over the old world was taken for granted. And how it feels now to see where the wave broke, its promise of a new world devoid of evil never fulfilled.

In the wake of it lies the seafoam and bubbles of people unwilling to let go. Bubbles wherein exist people like us, clinging on to a new world optimism and aching for a dream.

When our walk ends at the rail station, eyes meet and lips touch. I live for these neverending kisses goodbye—Beneath the tracks, where moans and whispers pass between two lips and two lungs, where arms roam desperately, unwilling to let go of even this fleeting moment. Castaways in our bubble.