High In-Hair Net!


As I write, it is well past the witching hour, sipping the dregs of a bottle of plonk, smoking my last cigarettes, half wishing for the warm body of a particular Frenchman in between my freshly laundered sheets, half wishing for a neat, white pile of more drugs, or at the very least a very chilled bottle of vodka... helas, I depleted my supply. On both counts.


(we need a cigarette)

smoking, smoking, thinking, feeling how glad to be high after such a long time. For what it's worth, it makes me feel young and reckless, and since in reality I am neither young nor reckless, damn his eyes. And crying in the taxi last friday, after R, and taking the ferry the next day and remembering that anything is possible. Anything is possible.

then again, at three in the morning, when you have a slightly bitter sinus drip, due to the chemical happiness you have injested, the world, the whorled, is wide, wide open. Talk to me on the morrow, when my head is swollen and my jaw inexplicably aches