Brad Walsh

Voices Carry

People on ecstasy are ridiculous and hilarious and wonderful. They can spend twenty minutes touching my hair, giggling. By three in the morning last night I was sober in a group of about twelve friends, all of whom were rolling. We were in a place that had so much painted and glittered crap hanging from the ceiling we may very well have been inside Tyra Banks. It snowed like the tundra for the exact three hours we were traveling at three, four, and five in the morning, and there were several points at which I was driving on straight up stretches of ice. By the time we got home, after six, I passed out the moment I hit the bed, and this morning the sun was shining and there was no evidence of the night before when I looked out the window.

Lately, people have been being secretive. “I went to um.. I went out last night.” “I have these plans later on…” “I will just say be careful of him.” “Here, try this, but I won’t say what’s in it.” “I have these feelings about you that I can’t say out loud yet.”

The last two days have been very weird.