... and then I realise my talent really lies in drinkin.
Okay, I am aware of the inherrant danger of siitting in my window on a balmy summer Paris evening, gazing out over darkening water-colour rooftops... downing martinis and watching 'midnight in Paris' (yes it is possible to do all these things with your feet swinging out over the gutter 5 stories below. The wide-eyed neighbours across the lane are my witnesses)... I am absolutely certain that i stand at the creative equivalent of the event horizon, about to disappear into the singularity of my own self-eating romantic obsession.
... but fuck. I dont care.
I made a decision today to spend the rest of my life in a perpetual state of summer.
Momentary it may have been, sprung from the sun, seine and a bottle of wine.
But who is to say that, in the absence of a life purpose with meaning and depth, we cannot embrace that which we can grip for the moment our outstretched hand can grab it.
Fuck it, I want summer.
I want the childish, innocent abandon.
I want smiles.
I want adolescent love in public.
... cold drinks, sun, blue, green, amber and as little clothing as anyone around will allow.
The belle epoch?
Why cant it be all the time...
somebody tell Marion Cotillard my address.
Somewhere under all of Paris' cliche is a moaning reality that even the most casual of walking idiots can hear.
You'll have to excuse me, I have a window to sit in... a martini to drink... and the muffled moans of Paris to listen to.
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