i visit the same cafe each morning. old habits, to ground. my feet have become raw from walking, pacing, tirelessly strolling through street after street of new.
yesterday, i sat down near shakespeare and company for an overpriced orange juice, something in my eye, a hangover dryly coursing through the circulating seine of my blood. three american girls freshly made-up and showered took a table in front of me, proceeding to speak some of the most asinine words i'd heard in awhile, i left them, and only later along boulevard st michel did i recall "are your croissant's here good?" "we totally have to go to argentina AND costa rica!" "machu pichu, that's my favorite song." and i thought about them with this mock, i've been here for five days assimilated superiority, and i looked at myself in the mirror of a storefront, with checkered gap flannel and black sweatshirt tied around my waist, grey american apparel t-shirt hugging my health-conscious torso, and starbucks, yes, starbucks iced green tea held in my right hand with too-long straw sticking out of its top and i laughed til i cried. the convulsions were from a sad wellspring and rising up became joyous and hysterical and self-conscious but all too pleasurable to deny as i went from one bench to another now in the jardin des luxembourg, frightening those across from and passing by my fluffy haired clown.
and then i laid down on one of the properly designated strips of lovely grass, with everything on my nerves dripping away.
