Airports remind me of the cronic state I'm in, the antiseptic limbo in between a dream and a nightmare. Not quite lost but never a place where I truly feel at home.
"Spring came with
you" he says when he picks me up at CDG, wearing midnight blue and
lavender. Paris smells the way I remember it, not from spring and cherry
blossoms but a Gaultier-esque vulgarity. Its beauty is raw and
impertinent, nothing like the dignified elegance of Rome or Milan.
first time I came here was with Chloe, she wanted to fuck one of the
PSG soccer players after watching the World Cup on TV. It worked better
with the artists in Montmartre, even though they lacked money to buy us
drinks and jewelry. We tried opium and red lace lingerie and promised
each other that for the later it would be the first and only time.