The summers of my life have never been well defined. Meaningless railroad tracks, a blurry train of events, and then, nothing for a while. It is times like these that a sense of mortality and apathy come together, and it is times like these that you start shooting heroin in the back of a dirty Parisian café. Wandering down these narrow streets has never felt so sweet. Scars of graffiti mark the moments of troublesome youth on the side of a passing truck. An abandoned wheel rests after a lifetime of service. I’m noticing things. The heroin gently pulls me down, and I settle quietly into an antique armchair just inside the lobby of a weary old French building. I close my eyes and drift. Paris is color coordinated, and in June, the sun sets at 10 o’clock. The people are chic, the streets are dated, and everything is leisurely on schedule. Milk costs about 3 dollars a gallon, coffee is about 8. I am inspired by this, and I stagger out the door, using my momentum to fall into a recently vacated chair outside of a tea room. I like it here. The birds are comforting. I grab the still warm cup left on the table, and I sink into beautiful fumes. Black Tar and Espresso. White China with Café au lait. Heroin and Coffee.
Created: Nov 09, 2010jules_su Document Media