I am looking at you looking pretty and pretty small under the high ceiling of the Apollo-guarded sky, and you tell me to write about being in love with being out of love, and you tell me to write about friendship. My muse, however, she is lazy and spoiled, lolling about in her holiday mood.
Your joyful feet are dangling in the perfect present while your mind reaches out to the present perfect of the sphere of science. But excuse me, Madam, why exactly are you putting your shoes on? "Because if I die in a bath-tub, only with my cowboy boots on."
But we won't ever die, my dear, we won't ever die. Who wants to live forever? We do. And this summery fraction of our eternity will last. Until the day of departure at the very least.
We will share the old sounds and the novel, we will share the sunny seconds and the breezy hours, the tipsy nights and the early morning polar bear moods. I will be in love for you, you will be out of love for me.
And we will love being in love, and we will love being out of love. Our hearts are heartless. Our arts are artless.
And when it comes to the art of living, nobody can fool us. We master the joie de vivre standing on our heads with both hands tied.
We are alive on the same planet, at the same time. Could we be luckier? And even if we have to sail under the flags of unequal adventures for a while or forever, this will be one of the things that will never change.
And now, lets put our shoes off and tip-toe into our vibrant and sonorous garden of Eden where the sun hangs low and the time stands still.
Tick. Tick. Tick. I can't hear it. Can you?
"You begin saving the world by saving one person at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics."
~ Charles Bukowski
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