ii. memento mori

tonight my apartment reminds me of france. my former life in france was, as one might expect, devastatingly beautiful. the negative allure of the french existed in deep black rivulets that covered my walls, but i found them only fascinating, unaware of their potential entrapment. a large oak tree sturdily approached my windows, through which light would flicker silently. a neighbor told me that the tree was the oldest in town, steadily uprooting our uneven brick courtyard. my ghostly cat lusa and i lived alone together. i believe that we were stunning in our loneliness. i spent the weekends listening to records, staring at the black rivulets growing toward the ceiling, and falling asleep to sometimes troubled dreams.

i often took walks just to look into windows at dusk, fascinated by the white-walled rooms which inevitably glowed yellow in the encroaching dark. there was one apartment a few streets away with a balcony i coveted, covered in distressed brick and ivy and twinkling lights. i was certain no one lived there, and that the light had erased any encroaching blackness that might creep into one's mind. the apartment remained empty for my imagination to explore.

at home i would sit on my own meagre balcony (which faced a wall) and smoke herbal cigarettes, the plumes illuminated by the sun like wisps of spiderweb. i found a love who lived far away, whose ideas captivated, whose bold voice haunted my sometimes troubled dreams. when i saw him in person he evaporated, or i did, after he bought (or stole) me fresh berries. clutching handfuls of his mist i flew home to my white dream cat and white plume smoke to sleep on my beige worn couch, dreaming bold black dreams.