We're not eleven these days, I'm not seventeen either, although I guess you were around when that changed. Maybe there's not much I need from you to be a warm buttefly, because here's the truth: I probably just don't. I've gotten by and by, and I know where we're riverbanks. You like fairy-tales and mischief. Call it vengeance or mysticism or even romanticality if you can. I am addicted to this bore, the reality of wherever. I breathe it and I hope I never escape. There isn't a good morning coffee in bed in here, not yet, and I am getting tired.
Listen: I am Kurt Vonnegut, even though he's an old man by now, and he's an actual writer. That's not the point though.
I tried hugging the grand scale of things, but it slid out because it was just too big. I even tried selling my ears to the joker, but I found hearing difficult that way. You know, maybe we're just sailing along, and it's time to look out for roaches. Maybe when we saw that sunrise we didn't really get it for what it was. It was Nut swallowing Ra in his little boat, and giving him birth again in the dark. We could've known just then how easy autumn leaves are when they fall. Although so many never saw that.
We do know more about snow than most others. We've tasted it too, with our separate buds, and I suppose that's enough for our smiles.
Paris is a city of heretics, and for sudden girls like us, it's really no place.