you know those people that don't live in the present, but in the past, and the future.
i'm one of those people.
i've talked too much about my past, so here's for a change.

there's a white house, in it, two people of uncertain genders. one of them is me.
they smell like vanilla, and the scent chains itself to the purple bedsheets.
and between the bedsheets, lies too insominiacs soaking themself in white lights of morning.
perfect occasion for me to drag them out of bed, out of their clothes and onto my camera viewfinder.
after i finish reading to them another chunk from baudelaire.

we have tea. vanilla, raspberry, caramel, blueberry, whichever we have left.
i go bake for them. because we breakfast at its best, cake and tea.

we then could be splattering paint, going to the library, working on the photographs, or on the typewriters.
all this while we would of course be snorting some sort harmful chemicals because someone once told me;
you look like a heroine addict back then, it's beautiful.

and everyone who knows me, would know i will have this life.