I feel I’ve overstayed Asia. There’s no one to love here. Or they are all married with ten thousand kids under their belts, with runny nostrils.
It is 20:17 in Paris. I don’t friggin’ care what time it is elsewhere. I have been stuck in Paris-time for the past twenty odd years, and to force-revert it to local Asia-time is like asking the Moon, to change course because someone decides to have a midsummer night’s party. If the world is up, then they are. If they’re not, we might as well bury them all and make way for some space, and more rainforest jungle.
I know its shocking, but well, that’s my secular humour, for the week.
Can you imagine Asia without a green belt? She’d be like the desert. And we know how these were formed due to previous nuclear holocausts prior the deluge, but I shan’t bore you with such memory.
I meant to write you a quixotic letter. Yes, the kind where I would physically write on cotton stock, with my fat fountain pen, fabriqué en France. The last time I touched a pen was June last. My fingers need to bouge. Since I rarely play a musical instrument, it needs limbering up. Can you imagine when I will touch you, with a terrible cramp, and I can’t move neither hand nor fingers?
It would be terribly embarrassing, and painful. I should erase that thought now.
I think the idea of romance should be in the touches, in the kisses, in the escapades, in the … I can’t do that from here. I can imagine, replaying the film in my head, seeing how you, well, do that and I’d do this or both of us scoot off in the maze and just go totally potty but certain things I don’t have to.
I can feel the worlds as it is. I can also hear music coming from the streets.
My ears are picking up, O, someone’s tuning the radio reception in their parked car. Outside. Jack was barking earlier on, and I was listening to Calogero. No, not on YouTube. Such annoyance when a stranger parks in the dark road. I should get the management to, get the guards scan each and every car that comes in to, listen to their radios in the evenings. I just don’t understand, why my street. There are like fifty lonelier streets out there. And they can park there for all eternity for what’s worth of parking and listening to their radios.
The organisation I was telling you about will be having a PC in Geneva sometime, and none of my emails have been replied as yet. I wanted to reconfirm, coming home. I needed to do the ticketing etcetera, getting the best price on MAS or Air France. Even if you won’t be there, or busy at the Studio, I reckon we’d bump into each other soon enough when we will meet somewhere.
Somehow … I’ll share with you once I’m home, why it is taking such a long time to get from points A to B. Gravity darling, gravity. But I don’t think we’ll have much time deciphering the retard. Would we?
O I still love Asia. It is 36°C, with 57% humidity this evening and partially cloudy. What has the weather to do between us? At least, for now its not a calamity, and I should be grateful, to the Protestant Church prolly. Please don’t misconstrue for monsoon’s sake, but not to that extent where I miss any city. Apart from Paris of course. But who doesn’t miss Paris? I’ve missed you so much. I reckon one is allowed to miss a friend every other second, day and night. Especially when one is thinking of how to love him. Maybe I shouldn’t think too much about it. It’s not normal for aliens to have feelings for humans although it is encouraged to love, for that is the path, to the Kingdom.
Please don’t forget your honey and Vitamins. Epsom salt is good for the warm bath too. Even if we’re not together when I come, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t meet up for coffee.
With all my love … j’ai besoin de toi
“Paris, after the storm”, Image, Courtesy and Copyright Trey Ratcliff