So here’s the deal.
I want Paris.
It’s an obscure town for those who want to betray themselves and live this decadent life people write novels about.
And drink champagne for breakfast, and wake up at noon.
And laugh insanely and feel beautiful.
I will love you even better.
Because you’re dead poetic, knife-sharp minded and even more sick at your head than myself.
Because you don’t dress up.
You’re not beautiful or stunning, but you have the genuine words to undress my every inch of the brain.
And I wanted my gown to be black and waves of lace because of you.
I love you and I’ve chosen darkness.
With you, I could hide for the rest of my days, I could tear apart people’s lives and rise with pleasure, write deliriously, deliciously honest.
[note to Laura] It took me about five minutes to realise that this is the most coherent, impassionate and sincere love statement I ever made. I did not even had to think about it, to ponder my words, to seek for reasons. It all just came as if I always knew things should feel that way. And the dress part…it’s most uncommonly true. After I saw Jeux d’Enfants I thought it should be red. But I wouldn’t plan on looking like the wedding crasher. I would have dressed, toes to torso, in shimmering lace and taffeta and walked down the isle. And this is bullshit, cause he’ll never break his vows of supreme fidelity to a rich girl named after male masturbation.
