Stupidly, I fail to mention
my happiness. One month
plus one week plus maybe
another week by now. Some
people collect hearts. I give
mine away. In pieces. I am,
however, surviving okay like
this, see? Well. Right at this
moment. With the grinding,
etc. But I feel art (as I eat a
french fry). An attempt to
dig out of the French poodle.
I have to get myself wrapped
up and out the door, somehow.
The number one reason to wrap
oneself up in a pub (and not a
poodle) is that the high is so
incredibly cosmopolitan.
