Confessions, Next Life, Fever

Confessions
So I spent my perdiem, 5 of the 8 days anyway, on Opera tickets.
I can eat Cliff bars. I can't enjoy Werther at the Opera Bastille next month.

So I wander aimlessly through the streets, seeking nothing, breathing everything, exhaling contentment.

So I devour crepes, sip dark cafè, smell Parisiene parfume on beautiful women, fresh bread.

So I am boasting on this good fortune,

I confess.


Fever
Not me, everyone, everywhere, the Pariseines.
Busying about, brisk-paced, shopping bags brimming, passionate kisses, fevered in these sun-filled early days of spring.
The cold rain has paused, and so the intent to sieze the sunshine.

Let the fever penetrate the pregnant blossoms of the flowers, so they like the fever will break.

Let the fever live, so the winter can die. Let the fever break into spring.


My Next Life
In my next life I will be a crepe, a chocolate, banana crepe, warm, soft, thin, with the most delicious insides imaginable.

Someone will handle me with desire, and consume me slowly, reverently, and voilà, I am transformed.

Yes, a crepe I will be, and someone will say in a silly voice
"I think that I shall never see a crepe as lovely as she".

Genie, March 7