mystery is in the eye of the beholder

i don't have the foresight necessary for chess. in the fall i never believed it would be winter; i never believed winter would be like this. it is cold and the house smells of dust but never gets warm enough, i spend time waiting for things to happen, i make soup and eat warm bread for which i've shuffled off to the bakery, down rue de l'agent bally and over to rue milton, down rue des martyrs -- you see, i live in a place which references the overly dramatic. i want to tell you about what it's like here, about the time when i was late for a piano concert in the louvre and saw the woman out of an otto dix painting sit there in her velvet jacket and red wig and smile gracefully before she became a demon dancing on the piano, but i don't think that you're interested. i make my scrambled eggs spicy to feel them in my throat, and then it smells like dust and eggs. i just want to read those short stories about the young boy who is in love, watch those movies where the young girl is in love, and drink tea on the couch and talk to any number of my "you's."