Almost ghost girl haunted by no modern romance, and it’s just the fairies revenge, you say, chasing each other in a sorta fairytale spun in a city without stars. mulhollandshine reflected in a little girl’s looking glass (we see everything through a teardrop glass, darkly).
imagining last last new year’s eve fireworks watched from a speeding car on cracked freeways armed with the vaguest routes and the pretense that they’re second stars to the right disappearing into neverland with forgotten smoke rings and jeweled nooses. under the amber glow of fading Christmas lights and mother-of-pearl stars you can hardly remember anything except a new puppy drunk on vintage champagne, alternate bright-or-fog floatiness and sickly shadows cast over cups of raspberry tea.
drifting through the edge of the night’s lashes sinking into dawn staring at the creamy sea-glow of the heaviest rain-stained vintage coat, lamp-lit and trying to hold your own in half-coherent conversations to be forgotten in the daylight experience of absolut sleep. (on fast cars we go, dearheart, to get an almostfamous life back with a self-stamped envelope and a wine-sloshed grin.)
friends only.