I imagine this life…
A Parisian guy who owned a librarie-papetrie like the one in “The Science of Sleep”. Across the corner is a beautiful girl named Marie-Claire who knows his order: cafe, brioche.
The French I imagine too: “Ils barvardent tout le jours. Elle a des cheveux blondes et il sourit quand il fait ouvrire la porte.” I think that says something intelligible in French, yet.
The soundtrack to this life would be Brazilian Girls' “Talk to La Bomb”. He rarely indulges in alcohol. He is not sure if he loves Marie-Claire, their relationship is comfortable, but it is not the sort of thing one makes a life out of, together, forever, before man and God is it? And why are they never at parties together, people you are to love, you see at parties (don’t you?). No, he thinks, she’s certainly not in love me.
The pens are arranged so neatly in the clear cube matrices.
- .5 millimetre.
Maybe she is in love with me. Or maybe it’s just the way you love regularity and the people that are involved in it.
Cat Power and hashish and beautiful dresses that have blue flowers in rich Georgia O'Keefe style on shimmery white thin draping. Parties should be like that, that’s where one finds loves, why isn’t Marie-Claire at such parties?
The moonlight dances across cobblestones in the rain on the lonely fall night, sunshine in thin winter air is wispy and reedy like the reams of A4 paper in a variety of colors:
The lights go out as he pushes the switch, the locks, the keys, the jangling, the pull of the rideau-de-fer, closing the office products away for one more day. Until the sun, the cafe and peut-etre Marie-Claire…