Picking flowers from the ceiling.

I miss being the slightly offputting, female harpsichord of a girl.

I once read books, I once sat and smoked for hours thinking of a single item of worth and why it was or wasn't something else. I miss hovering over the blackest cave of coffee I could find and wasting the hours away while the rest of the city slept, lighting little fires with pages of Camus and dreaming of filthy Paris.



Cobblestones and footbridges.
That feeling inside your stomach that tells you something is so beautifully wrong.
Thinking... I wish [space] was here.
Smoking out windows of lofty buildings, and hands on legs feet off beds.

I miss being that empty ashtray, waiting for others to share their charred addictions.

I miss being a bashful disarray of consciousness.

I miss that place.