Bonne nuit tristesse

The closer we get to August the more we tend to stay up until the rest of the village here begins to wipe the sleep from its curious eyes. Henry tells the locals we're the children of expat art dealers from Lugano, I guess it makes him feel alive somehow. We're still waiting for those heavy rains and a few moments of cold so we can wrap ourselves in cashmere blankets or wash the sweat off our broken bodies under the cherry trees in the garden.

I would change everything if I could but it's already too late as life slowly slips through our fingers like the fine grains of sand on the beaches below our house. He complains about the shopping in Cannes but I know he's just secretly cross over the fact that Chanel don't do menswear.