Laying in the spring-scented grass listening to Serge Gainsbourg slightly amazed at the aftertaste of my 35th birthday.
This is, after all, that year I would never live to see.
Seeing is a variation on being that somehow includes the living of it. And I've been so busy for the past 34 years making these choices you read as decisions, hiding behind stacks of superlatives and notebooks cluttered with secrets not sacred enough to warrant whispers, that all the mining now brings the pressure for a product.
This year, I prefer to be the figment of someone's imagination instead.
I'd like for Serge to invent me, to brush my hair. Or tangle it.
To do whatever he wants in the space between my right ear and my shoulder-blade.
I'm done with propositions.
as a prop.