Billie Holiday's going off like a broken record player in my brain and it takes me, of all places, back to Sacha's house when she still lived in Los Feliz. To some late night in high school and we're set on a couch with her friend and the dogs (when Paycheck was still around) watching Love Me, If You Dare. It's in French. but there were English subtitles, not that Sacha needed them. They were more for her friend and I.
It was quite an intriguing story, this movie, and it stuck with me the way not many movies do. For months after I'd always look for it whenever I was in a video store, but always in vain. It was a small secret movie with a young Marion Cotilliard.
Hmm. Strange to think.
I haven't slept in two days.
It's delirious. I have to open my mouth to keep my jaw from clenching still. Goddamn drugs. But it was worth it. It most always is, and that's why I'm glad I'm not a crackhead. This after-thought, these physical consequences are a devil. Not a strong frightening one, no. It's a weary devil, but it endures. And I've got no more time for new demons. I'm fending off enough as it is. Overwhelming's the wrong word. I don't feel overwhelmed. I feel tired. Tired of pulling my hair out. Tired of the chronic shift of focus. Tired of the distractions. Tired of work. Tired of the same old. Tired of not being in love. Tired of feeling lost. Tired of feelings tired.
It's time like these I wish that my attention span stretched farther and that I wasn't so pessimistic. But then who would I be without that? Just some other dummy who thinks the song that's singing is singing to him. Fuck you, Cotton Jones.
