Sitting on a couch, drinking a bottle of Sangiovese-Merlot-Cabernet Sauvignon (imported from Italy), listening to Surrealistic Pillow. Homemade pasta with we-don't-have-a-food-processor pesto. It's snowing outside. Or at least it was.
Complete albums are perfect. Cuddling with an empty bottle nearly so. I can still remember the day when he first won my heart, on the hillside where we lay he said we never would part. So says Grace. Empty white wall, a canvas for this story. Real life is so beyond everything else. An experience. Visionary, the future. But somehow this feels like the past. Totally retro. "Hippie drug music."
An hour and a half of flashbacks to a time I never lived. Sometimes, everything is exactly right.
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"It was to be a picnic on a gigantic scale."
Title and description liberally borrowed from Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad.
OK, that made we want to come skiing. Looked awesome with a great face plant.
ReplyDeleteI am chagrined to say I can't place the quote in the proper song. I am more of a 3/5's of a Mile in tene Seconds kind of guy.
Dad
Jorma would be disappointed.
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