30 June 2009

Pierrot le fou

Maybe I'm daydreaming. She reminds me of music. Her face. We have come to the age of double men. We do not need mirrors anymore to talk to ourselves. When Marianne says, "It's a fine day," I wonder what she's thinking. All I have is that image of her saying, "It's a fine day." Nothing else. What's the point of figuring it all out? We are made of dreams, and dreams are made of us. It's a fine day, my love, in dreams, in words, and in death. It's a fine day, my love, it's a fine day in life.

I'm looking at you, I'm listening to you, but that's not what counts.

- Well, thanks alot!

No, I mean right this moment, but it's already gone. It's... I don't know. The color of the sky. Our relationship.

- I don't get it.

I wish time would stand still. Look, I put my hand on your knee. That's a wonderful thing in itself. That's life. Space, feelings.

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