Thursday, November 18, 2004

Eating songs in Paris...

I'm wanna jump...right out...outta my skin. As long as that song is in my head. oooooooh ooh ooooh.
Just ate my lunch for breakfast...mmm... a hunk of fresh baked bread and some cheese. Today I think I will pretend I am in France. I'll pretend that the coffee I'm drinking isn't burnt and weak. Instead it is smooth, so smooth, dark esspresso served in a tiny porcelain cup with a saucer. I'm drinking it in a cafe with open windows and waiters in shiny black shoes on the edge of the Red Light District, in the Muslim section of town. I write in my journal and a postcard to my cousin Pete... later I visit a museum. It's not the Louve, I haven't found that yet. I never did. What a pity. Instead I sat in the park and was accosted by Frenchmen till finally I decided just to leave the country, penniless. And yes, this is also a pity. It was so nice there, that is, except for the persistent Frenchmen.

Outside the birds are singing their crazy little songs while I sing mine indoors. You gotta dance when the spirit says sing. ooooh ooh ooooooh. whistle oooh whistle.

Waiting for snow in my reindeer sweater and snowflake socks. Oh yes, I remember where I am now. Burnt coffee, but blue skies. Rocks and crows.

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