Paris que bon souvenir
It has to be in Paris. Just somewhere
in there walking about like a lost soul. Something of the dreamtime,
something of the breathing in the spirits, living off the overflow,
there is a wet spot and I have a bucket. The cost is eating my heart
out but that is what it foes for these days. Everyone can have their
period, everyone can have there a piece of the trottoir. If anything
is going to happen then it is there, that it will happen where it is,
just behind, our of sight, out of earshot. I had the muffs on, the
black specs and locked in a little room without a step out into the
mix of it. All I need is a beer once a weekend, the bottles of wine,
the sinking into the scrounging around and eating out of the gutters.
Then, to go east, oh, the overstay sends me on my way out of here and
back to where I am coming from. I had not learnt to cross my t's or
dot my i's. I have not even got a grip on the conditionnel. Time
stealing away paying taxation or avoiding dues but the cash transacts
a little bullshit to stand and take a few steps. N'importe quelle
direction. The inverse are out on their arses.