Words to Tie to Bricks Read Online Free

of being on the sidelines – will be too much for you, and you
will go. You will straighten yourself out and refuse to change because it’s not like you’re staying long or anything and you will leave your things on the desk like you might get back
to them – even if you know that tomorrow, when you see them there, you will feel like you let them fall to ruin, like you are at a museum and they are a statue missing half a face and a left
arm – and you will go.
    You will stand up and pause, listening to the revelry unravelling next door, considering and reconsidering, but in the end, you will go.
    You will pad carefully down the stairs even though your parents are away for the weekend recuperating from something or other, and your sister is spending the night at her boyfriend’s and
you’re covering for her because she said please and you’re practically Jesus – it won’t matter that the house is too empty to judge you. It will still feel illicit somehow,
leaving your desk for the unknown. When you catch yourself sneaking, you will hesitate, torn between the comfort of your planned evening and the siren call of next door, but you will go, because
you blow your friends off enough as it is and the verbs will wait and you want more than a queue of Cokes in single file and you keep missing things and you know your verbs just fine anyway.
    You will shut the front door gently, looking away from the monstrous youth of next door to the rest of the street, sleeping almost-soundly in sepia streetlight, quaint as can be. It will remind
you of playing chasing there, and some part of you will shrink back from the idea of turning from it to the house next door. You will almost turn back, almost leave this street to itself and go
back to your books, but you’ll hear the undeniable rhythm of how young you are from behind you, and you will turn and go to the party.
    It will be like every other house party. You will have your eyes open for your friends; you will know they’ll be pleased to see you and even more pleased to ply you with alcohol and loosen
you up, but they will not appear. You will look around, realising that you have come just a little too late to properly partake, that you have come to it as a spectator now, always a little too
sober to ever catch up to the vocational insanity of it all. You will feel the sinking swallow of regret as you pick up a plastic cup and pour yourself a small glass of something unpleasant. You
will look around at the assembled revellers, sprawled in various states of intoxication and youth, engaged in all manner of activities that are entirely different kettles of fish when sober, and
you will knock back your drink in one go, wishing you hadn’t come but not enough to leave.
    You will wander through the sea of limbs, wondering often how so much can be squashed into a house not different from your own, and though you will see acquaintances – the host, the guy
you sit behind in History, the barista from the coffee shop you go to during study breaks – you will not be able to make eye contact. You will remember why you don’t go to parties
– why the siren call is just that, and why you ought to listen to your instincts. You will wonder if you will ever really feel like one of a group like this – if any amount of alcohol
or free time or success or failure will ever make you feel like you belong in this picture.
    You will whip yourself into a cantankerous frenzy and almost leave there and then. In fact, you will be turning to leave when you see her.
    She will be in the emptiest room, almost alone. She will fit into the landscape like she was painted there; she will look like she belongs when she sips her cup, smoothly, like this is not her
first time at the rodeo, and something in the stretch of her neck as she finishes the drink and the way it makes her straightened dark hair betray itself into waves will enchant you, and you will
be caught.
    You will freeze where you