My huge fan
I want to marry you and I want to be a writer.
I hope one day we can stroll through the corridors I walked upon today; the image inside my head was more real than the real event. That day, I'd be a successful writer, and it'd be my art, and only my art, what would've taken me there. We would be rich and successful and refined and baroque - yet simple. You would buy me expensive perfumes by Guerlain, from la maison Guerlain in Paris, or from Fortnum & Mason at Piccadilly; and I would get you expensive gifts, that type of gifts that renew masculinity. Yet we would be simple. We would eat out, wearing out best clothes, like that date at the music hall, and like a scene taken from a Greenaway film; yet we would be exactly the opposite. We would joke around and laugh at every single ridiculous instant of life - life is pointless! And you would keep pouring that endless bottle of Chardonnay on our glasses, until we drank the night out, until we ran dry, dry as the touch of the wine on our lips, dry as our lips after so much food and sips of love and laughter.
And then we would go home.
Travels, travels, and travels, and home.
What a sweet word! I hope one day I can actually pronounce it: home...
I hope one day we can stroll through the corridors I walked upon today; the image inside my head was more real than the real event. That day, I'd be a successful writer, and it'd be my art, and only my art, what would've taken me there. We would be rich and successful and refined and baroque - yet simple. You would buy me expensive perfumes by Guerlain, from la maison Guerlain in Paris, or from Fortnum & Mason at Piccadilly; and I would get you expensive gifts, that type of gifts that renew masculinity. Yet we would be simple. We would eat out, wearing out best clothes, like that date at the music hall, and like a scene taken from a Greenaway film; yet we would be exactly the opposite. We would joke around and laugh at every single ridiculous instant of life - life is pointless! And you would keep pouring that endless bottle of Chardonnay on our glasses, until we drank the night out, until we ran dry, dry as the touch of the wine on our lips, dry as our lips after so much food and sips of love and laughter.
And then we would go home.
Travels, travels, and travels, and home.
What a sweet word! I hope one day I can actually pronounce it: home...
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