is crumpled in old letters

he found one yesterday. on yellow paper like corncobs missing the smell of butter. he wrote it when he was away, where the streets were hilly and the heat in spring was strong enough to leave a heart-shaped sweat mark on your butt when you go for a power walk. if you go. he never did. but this girl was, the old highschool friend of his old girlfriend who was away on a holiday to fiji and the friend had asked him as she power walked past his daydreaming gait, "how is she?" and he was too shocked to answer and just screamed, "fine!" his eyes on the wet dark heart of her ass. but later he'd written about the encounter, typing the words excitedly on his new second-hand brother with the missing : key so he had to write "met susan this arvo on that hilltop you always want me to hurry up c'mon, she asked how you were and so i said you were too busy spit-roasting across fiji, aren't i funny?" yes, he was funny, he thought. he was ironic, if by that he meant he was lying to be funny. now everything is so serious. as grave as a grave. he doesn't feel like funny. he doesn't even like lying anymore. he feels like he has to get at the truth, the cold hard facts of everything everytime, he has forgotten how to be ironic. instead, everything feels hard, iron-ic, iron-y.