He’s been into God, lately. Don’t get me wrong, he’s an atheist. I’ve been watching his cheeks begin to sag, his beard blooming white, and he’s stopped protein powder pounding at the gym. The bicep pumps have made way for Paulo Coelho quotes haphazardly scribbled on scraps of paper and posted to the fridge, to the bathroom mirror.
After sex, I stare into the mirror, slapping my cheeks; I flip the hauntingly unspecific platitudes around, the little pieces of paper seem infinitely more optimistic when they're blank.
excerpt from Billy's Missive Issue 3