lemonkid

"As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady."
- Ezra Pound

I'm sitting here sucking on strawberries and cake, perched atop a piece of cheesecake just so, preserved by some chef's alchemy like it had just melted out of the hoarfrost of some long lost candycane Ice Age.

The air's thick with concrete and sweat, and the mind wanders to images of rivers & waterfalls, streams & swimming holes.. secret underground spas, open only to the iniatiated.

You can't help but think of love, how the bright clear rays of the morning sun pass, and in the afternoon you're left with a sticky entanglement of limbs from which it's impossible to extricate yourself, even if just for a quick cool bath.

Sometimes passion feels like one of Chairman Mao's plans to modernize China - grand on the whole, but little more than peasants unsuccessfully trying to forge metal in their backyard BBQ pit.

Humidity is the most decadent of heats - one has no choice, but to hide away in some sun, sipping a cocktail and letting the mind wander as the throat would get overly parched. You can't sleep, can't concentrate, you just drink up, write, and do your best not to go mad.

Almost too much like life for my liking.