InsaneJournal

medicating in the sun, pinched doses of laudanum, longing for the old fecundity of my homeland. curses to this mirage! a bottle of ancient Shiraz, a smattering of distant applause is ringing in my poor ears. on the old left bank, my baby in a charabanc, riding up the width and length of the champs elysees. if only summer rain would fall on the houses and the boulevards and the side walk bagatelles it's like a dream with the roar of cars and the lulling of the cafe bars, the sweetly sleeping sweeping of the Seine. lord I don't know if I'll ever be back again.