a cup of: rooibus nil rouge
reading: the dictionary, rough guide to denmark
i bought my sunday bread from a bakery in the marais that has feather boas hanging from the ceiling, baguettes shaped like phalluses, & where the dark, chiselled heavy-lidded boulanges avoid the eyes of the men they may have taken home from cox' last week.
my belly is full of knotted words that will get pulled out like colourful handerchiefs, but for now are sitting there, latent.
i wonder what life would be like in the lit-up window across the courtyard, the one full of shelves & shelves of books; i am writing stories on the ironing board in the middle of my room. piles of books are assembling themselves on various surfaces - rough guides coming in the mail, vogue histories from the library, my teacher's poetry book, renaissance art history books that i should be studying, but can't be bothered to anymore. the book is so heavy with virgin martyrs i can hardly hold it up to read.
leaving fingernail-trails like waning gibbous moons on the bus just to prove i was here, i am suddently filled with that afflatus, that susurration common to the dusk & the beginning of a new season, to write love letters to strangers, buy presents for everyone i love, & make imprints of things just to keep them for longer.
more pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2095416&l=d4a7b&id=94807461
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