journée grise et lente. impossible de dire s’il pleut ou pas; la pluie est un songe imprévisible avant le réveil et elle va et vient comme elle le veut.
the rain, la pluie, i avoided her most of the day. staying in where the air is warm and comforting, where the words come easily and without judgement. i would rather be here than be there, although i haven’t quite figured out where i should not be. it’s just so beautiful here. beautiful, and easy, despite the strangeness in the heart that wavers like an old wound and its scent, permanently linked, absorbed and unbearable.
you stole a tulip last night on your way home. there are tulips everywhere. in a raki-infused dream you sought to make one your own and plucked it clumsily from the soil where it mingled with her sisters. you took the tulip home and gave her her own tea glasshouse. sitting on lydia, she bloomed full strength, never minding that it was well after midnight. this morning she greeted you with her coral lines and gentle breath. i don’t know what she makes of her new sights, and i don’t know how long she will be among us. the kidnapping was selfish and swift—an impulse in the night. what can you do? i love tulips at night too.
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