I'm mellow now, darling.
I'm sorry, darling. You have nodded to Thurston Moore, while working double shifts, darling.
You know you do magic, darling.
I haven't been burning my Palo Santo, or meditating as of lately, my darling. My feng shui is all over the place,darling. The mirror is misplaced. I know. Gaba and things remain sort of intact. It's too hot. It's like California in here, but we don't speak Californian. Or something. We have ancient palaces, narrow streets and the infinite Atlantic ocean instead. We don't have Shakespeare, Henry the VIII, Ab Fab, Madchester, the Labour party, Joan Collins, NME, Britpop, Lord Byron or ancient Anglo-Saxon codes. I could draw you a semantic tree, though.
I feel tired all the time, my darling. It must be an iron deficiency. Blame it on the garbanzo beans and avocado sandwiches. Lacking ketchup and ice cream, and shortbread since the early 2000's.
I don't know how to buy you wine, darling, because I'm a beer/Pellegrino/Perrier drinker. The posh, organic markets make me act silly. I walked in them ailes like if I had two left feet. And so I leave. I don't feel white enough. Or posh enough. Or stylish enough. Or wise enough. And there is always someone asking me if I need something, and I always feel like when I was 16,too high to care, too willing to steal a Kit Kat. And its like, I might be doing something illegal. I'm an adult trying to buy wine, okay? So I leave. I might return, though. Maybe I'll wear heels and a moustache next time. I'll go undercover. Or something.
My palate is unsophisticated, my love. I prefer the late Summer, 6 pm-ish afternoons, when we eat cherries and peaches in the dunes and then we go swimming in the calm, deep blue, Atlantic ocean. It's quiet and there are only a couple of hysterical kids and us. And then we return home. And we walk by flower trees. And there are Corsas and early 90s cars parked that we dream about.Because if trashy Euro techno is on, we're on. And there are people with sunburns. But everyone seems happy. And it feels like magic when we capture the magical sky with the shitty cameras on our phones. And even fake croissants appropriations feel right at the local bakery. And we are too tired to recall climbing up and down rocks by the seashore and holding magical seahorses, And we talk about Morph, and the world can't get any right than this.
I could post you an erotic, ambient, loving song. But I won't, ok? Because I'm not like that. Oh, du bist so hubsch, Oh du bist so nett. I feel like 16 when I talk to you. I hunchback and I snore when you make me laugh, and I try to act cool. Which is cute, right?
Kostars - Hey, Cowboy