My late Sunday breakfast-turned-lunch
consisted of a piece of flatbread with peanut butter
and that overlong commercial for a jeweller from Fifth Avenue
showing what happens when you get your cat wet.
The only thing missing was a coupe of milk
and my decorator.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
There is nothing better than romantic love
if you make a living selling tickets to Paris and Venice
or intend to do some fine coin on Audrey Hepburn films.
And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Think of the more sinister players,
like the diamond cartel feeding us with the myth of the symbol of love
—the engagement ring. Or have you ever contemplated the absurdity
of Valentine’s Day? After all, th’ uncertain sickly appetite needs nothing
of the sort. Elderflowers and an Epsom salt bath are Granny’s best
remedies for fever.
One never sleeps with a corpse, maybe except for one’s own spouse
after twenty years of trite upheavals in the castle. But what got me there,
one might ask? That always-at-hand cliché of the great loves of my life,
I suppose: Audrey Hepburn, Marcello Mastroianni, Max Schreck—all
as dead as the celluloid that keeps them alive. At least I can still be a little
adventurous from time to time, although each film marathon eventually
becomes nothing more than an inconvenience. Probably like everything
else in life after a while. Perhaps that is why humanity’s greatest torment
is, in fact, boredom. No wonder that one has recently switched to voice
couching. Coital vocalisations are the latest challenge. Maybe unethical,
but how fulfilling! At least for now.
hidden pilcrow 