A massive poster for the 2011 movie Reel Steel outside a contemporary Cinemark in Las Vegas. Hugh Jackman's character puts his back to Deckard from the first Blade Runner, utilizing that movies key art. All of the text color, except for the main logo, is red.
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Complacency and decay: a deft combination of microsexuality and nostalgia for a time that cannot possibly exist. Perhaps misremembered, or, at worst, not cared about enough to warrant more than a cursory explanation for what the history of the world is.
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Hugh Jackman is buff and nearly shirtless, and given the disparities between the two worlds on display, there's no way he can ever coincide with Deckard's presence. The two only share superficial, surface level similarities. And knowing that this is Vegas, sex is always implied. It's there, and we're content with living with it, but we don't know how to control it enough for it to not seep into our bottom line expectations of some locales.
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The paint on the poster is nearly sundried from a decade of being in the sun, dark reds now look pink. Being as massive as it is, it waves like a flag in the wind—a reminder of what coming to the movies used to mean for the corporation too lazy to take it down. Perhaps they're doing it for someone who can no longer be there in person (either they're dead, or they transferred to another theater, or they quit and found a new job, or they retired). Either way, the sun blows right through it. Once dark and brooding, now chalky and old. One final goodbye in the middle of the day, where the sun still shines and it's 95 to 100 degrees in the shade. Water bottles melt in cars, and Deckard sits there, back-to-back with a man who can never possibly understand his morals or values. Goodnight, sweet prince of purple sunshine, goodnight.

A case of a mistaken jacket. Nearly an entire season on anime in a classroom. And then my older brother gets to teach and it's Fortnite. And then my old teacher returns and it's Skyrim. We wrap things up and I give him the jacket I thought was mine to return. I'm watching my friend play Skyrim on one of the Macs. She's loving it.

Sun off the borders of dawn, brawny architecture. It used to be cold in the mornings. I used to see my own breath freeze up as I let go. But winter coats and wintry attitudes never dine well together, so I had to loosen my grip eventually. And where I see sunshine, I see you.
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And it's not a love story because it feels painless on my end. Like morphine, or a nice cup of tea to go with your medicine in the morning so you can sleep through the afternoon in peace. Maybe it's cliche to say that; juvenile. Like a ballad sung by two tweety tweenagers who never know when to stop assuming all of life's a musical, and all the common plot lines they've picked up from their favorite cartoon. Take the jacket, for example. A long, furry jacket, and a fake kiss shared between two soon-to-be lovebirds—if only consent was taken into account. But those kinds of fictional characters only need therapy once their show runners are out of a career. And perhaps that's where I've picked the disdain up from. To use as a drill, to build a bank, to swim safely to shore. To justify the picture at large; revisionism.
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How the story is meant to go: we hug and we make up. And we don't kiss. And we're at odds with each other, so an anvil would drop on me if I insinuated as much afterwards. It is a peaceful morning after all; fade to black.
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But do I deserve that? Reload the save the argue with myself. A slap fight ensues. It's funny,

Inner-city conflict, and we'll be home free. I can see an inch ahead of me, but nothing more. I can't see their lights, I can't see their sirens, but I can feel them piercing through the air hitting my sides.
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I will never be home on time.

I asked for lemonade in my lunchbox because it was the one flavor of Capri Sun that I really, really, unequivocally liked as a child.

What they told me back then was that dreams could be more than dreams—a glimpse into the future, maybe. What's a prophet who doesn't dream?

And so I woke up one morning, afraid. Cold sweats ran down me like shivers, and I felt like I'd taken even my bed for granted—all for the price of lemonade and its sweet, savory flavor. I'd dreamt that they came and took it all away, piece by piece because I didn't want the fruit punch.

After that, I asked for another flavor instead.

Up until 3 AM watching a Spanish movie that jumps from style to style. None of us can finish it. Too tired to go to bed. I had to the gym at my old school. Homecoming is happening, and they're preparing. None of them know that I'm not a student there. There's a bed for me and plenty of ginger ale across, but by the time I try to reach for it, it's gone. I try to sleep, but the roar of a jock and his diva keeps me up. God help me. I try to leave. I am no longer at my old school. I have no idea where I am, but the person at the exit understands why I'm there and warns me that the trains only run easily. So I make myself a jetpack and lower myself to ground level slowly (we were on a mountain). An instructor follows suit, but she runs out of juice on the way down and passes in front of me. I'm finally in the home stretch. In front of me now is a military base. I escalate it, but the police are chasing me. It's GTA, but everything is made out of Lego. Finally, I manage to escape and find a train to take me home. My family is on it, for some reason. And my cousin, who I only saw for the first time in nearly a decade last year. I install some games to play on his computer and then go to sleep. I realize that I should uninstall them, so I tell him I have to. He obliges and opens a Google Doc.

I am woken up by a phone call.