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Phone Numbers

I was looking for a name in my phone and I realized that there's a thick number of people I don't know, don't talk to, and don't remember. I don't know who the fuck 'Lucas French' is.I'm assuming he's French. I didn't know he existed, until tonight. I guess he existed at whatever point he made an introduction into a uselessly sprawling array of numbers, but he disappeared pretty quickly.

I wouldn't get rid of Lucas French. I couldn't for the life of a fuck remember who he was. I still kept his number. Because you just never know. You really don't ever. It's stupid-it's the same logic that makes hoarders bury themselves in garbage or rabid and rapidly deteriorate in breathing animal pelts. It reassures me that I had even met Lucas French. Maybe he was outstanding- and seeing as I have no memory of him, I'll just imagine him terrific.

But names and numbers don't take up the kind of space that things and animals do. It's much easier to manage. They just take up space on your phone. And not that much space, considering that phones tend to set aside quite a bit of space for that. An invisible junkyard. An ephemeral reminder of of a time you may have set aside. When you were exciting or when you were still pure of heart. Childhood friends who live and thrive in the suburban gutter, good for arbitrary drugs whenever you're in town. Old Flames who taught you a trick you taught to a new trick. People who sleep underground and wait to become atoms. People who used to sit with you on the ledge at a school in the city, looking out onto the sprawl, smoking surreptitious cigarettes in the dark. Those people you can't see might still be within reach, made into numbers that might speak.

While your name, among others, is still a monumental thrill to avoid, I'll never get rid of it. You just never know.

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