My mind's' running in seventeen different directions. Full speed. Sprinting, but I'm not moving. And my hair is going with it. How did I get here?
When i listen to Cotton and Velvet, it feels like Paris again. That was three years ago. Or was it four, I'm not sure. Lili's married now. She's married. And Claire's home.
Why isn't this perfection enough? I can still remember writing on Tonya's balcony on Market St. That was a week before Paris, or a month maybe. I was so high.
It's almost difficult to put the feeling of that initial anticipation into words, that fervor, that unknown, that biting at the bit, that dreaming, but I'll try.
It's like flying. With your eyes closed, like sky-diving in your sleep. But upwards. It's immaculation. Maybe it's the Cotton Jones. My Jones may be my tuning fork, I think. My metronome.
I don't know what's happening.
What if all I wanted was to have a family in a hotel--no, (this is indecision) have a family and live in a hotel.
