A brow. A bed. A post. A lantern. Sitting in a cold church, I can feel my
bones on the pew. Striking, darling.
David Bowie in the rain. Glamour, latte to go.
My paramour(a lover, the illicit partner of a married person). "
And she's hooked to the silver screen". Merry go-
ROUND. Isn't this a beautiful song?- We shout over the din. Wonder if you'll ever know-
Life On Mars. Things that can move through the sky, I'm waiting. Waiting for that epiphany
waitingforthethingsthatflythroughthesky. I think, maybe, I'll try to read that book again. (Because hands on the page count for more than the rain). I'm
looking, looking for a train. A
train with steam, a
train with headlights, a
train, a
train for me and you. I slept on a
train. I woke up in Scotland.
I found candles behind your eyes/I found darkness in the sky. Isn't this wonderful, wonderful cliche? We'll Fake ourselves another two more verses, it's so so easy and
so so enjoyable. Darning gloves and paper with squares. This is what we call waiting, on the edge of waiting, on the bench edge, bed edge, window ledge. Predetermined course of events, it's going to happen. My last name's Destiny. It should be Dignity. My last name's Paris, my last name's Gold. All cobbled streets and broken wine, launch yourself from the pavement. Birds, like mistakes, line themselves on the telegraph pole. I think I'll get it drawn on my skin. (I think I'll ask for a favour). Here is your letter, here is the time, hereisapictureofawindmill on the back of the envelope. I hope you like it.
PretendingBowie.
We watched a sciencefictiondoublefeature.
I said goodbye with pizza pie.
