It's a cute, not some congenial, heart-felt nostalgia. A collection of red leather, and dark-stained weathered tables with the corners worn, and an iron horse-head sculpture melting under the diffused light from the '80s modern fixtures hanging from the ceiling. It's empty in the high afternoon, and the beer they serve is Foster's Australian. Cooped up in the corner between old flowery throw pillows, there's nothing more to do than to write, listening to the eccentric American and French pop songs they have playing in the place, and watch the bundled city walk by in the sun outside. It's fucking freezing out there.
Lili's still sleeping off last night, so here I am. The quiet soft-spoken American boy becoming acquainted with reality wishing, nonetheless, that one of these doe-eyed French girls takes me away in her arms, away to forget about it all. To knock the pencil out of my hand and throw excitement deep into my chest because it's been too long, and this bored indifference is just watching life by.
