I don't know how I feel about this. And not necessarily in a bad way. Sitting here in the middle of la Jardin de Luxemborg. Suffice to say, je ne sais pas with this many people around, like a steady stream rolling back and forth, and a symphony of French conversation from all the filled chairs about. For a second I'm bummed on not having brought my music, some headphones to zone out to, but this is all I think I need really. And the French kiddies fly past like seagulls on the run, screaming and harumphing all around, and it's lulling me away.
A sixty degree day she says. It's true and we're sitting in cold California again, not cold France, and it's nice. Accommodating even. She looks back like a hussy with a filter on her lips, and I don't know how I feel about it.
Feel something, dammit.
But there's nothing. No real passions at all. No tether. Like a red balloon, floating off without a string. Just some vague appreciations rising into the brisk late autumn sky as the dried leaves fall.
