Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

I don't know when Infatuation became designated driver, with Attraction riding shotgun. I'm clinging on, a poor passenger painfully perceptive to the patterns present, breathing in open air. Right there - an unruly eagerness gnaws at my incorporeal bones of thought, agitating 'til anxious thought is garbled speech, stones swiftly thrown at the window while Infatuation drives me by. I don't know if she's noticed me, or has but chose to neglect my apparent advances. The remotest possibility of her glances suspect to my frantic window-waving. Infatuation and I are at the pier. Attraction's rockin' out to Lauv. I'm told it's crucial that I be here - how else would I know how to fall in love, if I don't know what it feels to be sinking? ~~~ Finished this May 5th, 2019. Didn't really want to post this 'til I felt sure about the wording. Cheers!

My dad once told me - let’s start over - My dad has told me on numerous occasions that when it comes to travel plans, the ones involving planes, I should always be a few hours ahead of schedule, just in case. It’s taken more than a couple journeys flying Han (pew pew) before the lesson held on    and settled in the eaves (coo’ coo’) of my brain. Which is insane,   I know. I’ve stowed away a memory where, at a tender age of barely three years old, I was at the opposite side       of the window pane. My grandparents took me to the city, for what only God knows, but we were there, enjoying a side of Jollibee.         The only thing eating away at me was the possibility that I get to see my parents again. Why else would we be in the city? Right? ...Right? Three hours turn to four, then five, at which point it was obvious in the sma...