I’m running. Eyes closed, wet cheeks agsainst the cold midnight air… and I’m running. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m running. I’m tired inside to smile on the outside, to push that grin whenever somebody expects me to, to throw in a laugh that’s not mine. A typical act of fast food politeness, so I’m running. The weird thing is that I don’t know what I’m running from, I probably run because I’m tired.
Acum că mă gândesc mai bine, oraşul îmi pare departe. Şi totuşi, depărtarea-l face mai dezirabil, iar vânzătoarea blondă de îngheţată îl transformă într-un fel de Mecca al vieţii fără riduri, acum ne-am întâlnit în ploaie. Ne-am ascuns unul de celălalt prin baruri, prin tramvaie, pentru ca apoi să adormim împreună, visând la împrejurarile în care soarta ne va pune din nou faţă în faţă.
A doua zi nu ne-am mai recunoscut.
Subsistence is romantic, when romance is the only scarce thing in your boring life. Lungs of dirt is romantic, when inhaling dirty romance from the mirror. Spit is romantic see? I’m spitting romance in your face, as you’re thinking of my grammar. Loneliness is romantic, when having someone romantic to fuck it with. Vomit is romantic, when those romantic thoughts of yours make me sick.
Paris is romantic but then so am I.
PS. Don’t come too close to me, or I might hit on your sister.
A coloured one, to begin the year with. And, of course, a song that washes out a bit the tonight’s cliché.
