Avant

I wanted nothing and suddenly I’ve died.
Interaction is such a finely weighed balance; a mobile of golden teaspoons and ladles. A puppet show.

The Toulouse-Lautrec paintings are just because. I wanted to read my tea leaves.

I think I've fallen far enough into the cleavage of obscurity and now I'm stuck because the tunnel narrows. There was nowhere else to go so my feelings (for lack of a better term) just keep pushing at it. Once in awhile my awareness catches up to it and I can explain life in six words. But then it looses me again. All the while I seem constant to others.

I've been crossing the Atlantic for years without reaching land.

-Who's younger?

-When I'm bored, I feel old.

-And tonight?

-I am 1000 years old.

(From Coco Avant Chanel)

(I hate writing the search tags. I feel like a beggar. A prostitute of words)