... at Stereo, you never had to ask “where’s the love,” because it was everywhere, in everyone, even the atmosphere...
I opened the window so I could hear people.
But all I heard was the wind rushing,
fine garment of nothingness, like tulle.
You sent me a handout listing various
Imaginary Audience, who is messing with whose head? Can therapy make one worse than one was before going in?
Glissade, pas de bourrée. I stole a bottle of Cointreau from mother’s liquor cabinet