A Sunday in the snow
(Ryan McGinley http://a-dream-like-this.blogspot.com/)
must wake with extreme caution. Stop, she pretended to sleep. A large bucket of water into his mouth real bitch to false fringe and voila. It just waking dream, do not make too much, so she takes her life to a romance that she loses the thread in the Metro.
- The boy would be called in front Augustine my name is preferred, and when I close my eyes, I said ...
- Shit, gatehouse is my stop!
Pauv'mec. Life is poor, especially on Mondays. Claude Francois had told us.
The first day of the week has a taste of tainted milk, the toilet my cereal and coffee. There are moments like that, it seems not to advance. And perhaps because it is not concrete enough, not thick enough, that all this does not have enough relief, the feeling is widespread and still a little too light, it would be really stupid to s' upset for nothing. I can not find nothing better than to go on reporting on the esplanade of Defense. A stormy day. There, I feel good wind. In my eyes that cry, my nose and my brain, I can finally trépigner for real. I hope for one thing, fly. Last solution, divine incantations for Mary Poppins to come get me.
Yes, yes. I decided that everything would flow over me, that nothing cling to the roughness of my skin, but I cling to you in spite of myself. In memories of dreams or passions that I do stand by it, who even do not exist. And in the subway, as elsewhere, There's weeks where doors do not open.
That day, journalism gives me the impression of a hike starting very early on a Sunday at 7 am, and that over the market, it will snow. At first, I no desire to face the drop. I feel that I will have to slap me in the 4807 meters in fog my nose. I consider myself quite enough already perched at the top of my dreams and deep in my pillow. I think I hear dad just before we left to walk, just my June, give me your hand, the sun is just above the clouds. In my head the squall of snow, of course. He told me that every time and I do not believe it. Yet it is true. It is after much shit in the climb, I can go down the wind at your back and the sun in the nose, hopping with a satisfied air. Yet on Monday, Y'avait certainly more interesting than the summits national day of fertility.
Why she shakes like that? Mary Poppins you think? She drinks a beer at the Pop In, you're deaf or something? It is surely trying to explain that she is trying to kill the prince charming and she is struggling. What a bastard, he will not fuck him peace that.
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday ... As at the end of each week, I finally drown. In a high mountain lake, the champagne bubbles up through my nose. I zig zag through the snow and the blizzard that turns out to be a simple fog machine. Here's for sure, I lost the hiking trail. A savage monster asks for my number, I go running, obviously. The Cinnamon Bear was not so lucky, me, I was not armed.
What do you think Mary Poppins? I have several strings to my bag lady you know. What If? What if I dream of him 20 minutes a day, he will think of me forever. What if I offered him a blind test he can not refuse? Justine, do not shit on a Monday once a week is enough already.
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