he taste of cream, iced.
the cold helps my throat and my body which both feel like furnaces that won’t **** their burning faces.
tell me which is worse: the end of a railway track
or the beginning of a meal when you’re already sick at the thought of it?
this is what France has given me:
the confidence and surety that everything I’ve ever wanted is valid;
and therefore I should not consider myself to be a whiny white antagonist but rather,
an activist,
and someone who is alive, AWAKE, alert and always after all the action.
And I will go faster.
After all, this isn’t about me, it’s about you- no I take it back, in fact- it’s about what we leave behind. How many times does a nursery rhyme have to tell you to be a good person before we all start moving to the countryside and growing our own food to provide?
But that’s beside the point.
Pass me the bottle of water or put my head under the tap, you know: I’d prefer the latter.