He knows better than to play his own instruments

because instances where music does more harm than good do exist, so

he tinkers around with his friend’s ukulele,

wondering if his current feelings will last

permanently.

Despite detesting sweet potatoes,

having them for dinner is his cup of tea;

he’s still waiting for another experience like the time he realized that

a Douwe Egberts instant mix is nothing compared to

french-pressed ground coffee.

For years his mum didn’t know that

the only water he had during the day was a sip at night before going to bed, which

might almost seem as unusual as

the way he sprays her perfume on his feet

to calm his fear of smelling dead.

He can’t write unless he’s already writing and

talking on the phone makes him feel like

he’s going to explode;

though it isn’t half as bad as the time he learned to not

let people read the things he wrote,

like: the reality of time traveling changes nothing as

he would make the same mistakes despite the consequences known;

or how he has physically felt the color blue and

likes to be left alone.