"there were bookshops with racks of magazines printed without capital letters or the bourgeois disturbance of full stops" - the buddha of suburbia
let me turn on some sonic youth (circa daydream nation) to help me create the required zen for this post
okay that's better
now let me paint a picture:
a coquette - elegantly poised, meticulously adding salad dressing to her ready-made salad, that she must have purchased only minutes ago from some cornerstore
me - watching from a couple rows away, drinking in the sights and sounds of a city abuzz with vibrant energy that has only just gone under the dark embrace of the night
we are on the streetcar that is carrying us away from the harsh and oppressive heat of the heart of chinatown towards the more plaintive and sullen harbourfront
the day has only left its ruins along the road
vendors are collecting their livelihood and closing up for the night
chinese neon signs still offer me their fried goods and their banking services
I watch it all in a blur
flitting images
back to our coquette; she indulges now in her salad, from time to time adding a dab more of dressing
while asobi seksu that is blaring in my eardrums from my mp3 player lays on pounds more of jarring guitars and beautiful ebullient vocals that steer me carefully into the abyss
let me turn on some sonic youth (circa daydream nation) to help me create the required zen for this post
okay that's better
now let me paint a picture:
a coquette - elegantly poised, meticulously adding salad dressing to her ready-made salad, that she must have purchased only minutes ago from some cornerstore
me - watching from a couple rows away, drinking in the sights and sounds of a city abuzz with vibrant energy that has only just gone under the dark embrace of the night
we are on the streetcar that is carrying us away from the harsh and oppressive heat of the heart of chinatown towards the more plaintive and sullen harbourfront
the day has only left its ruins along the road
vendors are collecting their livelihood and closing up for the night
chinese neon signs still offer me their fried goods and their banking services
I watch it all in a blur
flitting images
back to our coquette; she indulges now in her salad, from time to time adding a dab more of dressing
while asobi seksu that is blaring in my eardrums from my mp3 player lays on pounds more of jarring guitars and beautiful ebullient vocals that steer me carefully into the abyss
2 comments:
BOY WANT SEKSU GIVE GIRL GIVENCHY
Today I was puttering about in my jalopy and Asobi Seksu's mellifluous chords injected themselves into my veins like heroin; I felt like Butch cruising in Pulp Fiction.
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