I once had this friend. He was a little insane.
As far as I knew, he never went to the city, and since I’ve known him he’s migrated to the smaller town, to the east.
Lots of times, he wouldn’t say what was on his mind, but rather something else. But he had the hardened aspect of one who’s father’s died, so you usually just nodded your head to what he said. He was the type to regularly divulge his taste in music, which is one reason I loved him.
As mother nature attempts to efface herself, emitting deep freezes in the north to kill off her own bugs and critters, my friend would efface himself, denying his own belief in the effect of his surroundings, when such a compunction were proper or behooving, which it often was. In doing so, he makes himself miscellaneous, and he’s now successful.
Sometimes I like people’s shoes they have on. Shoes now can come in many colors, I personally own a daisy-yellow pair and a blood-red pair, some other colors are tennis ball color and pink, on girls, and I’m usually happy when someone can be him or herself like this, because such opportunities are in working order. But how can you know you like certain shoes if you don’t dislike others? My friend strikes me as the type who doesn’t dislike any shoes, and he’s very successful, he’s good at me, too, always exuding the sort of innocuous, categorizable acceptance of his surroundings that suggests washing from a cookout back into the personal matters, which I always tried to avoid, but then, that sometimes is the trick.