themidnightcafe☂ and then they woke up and realized the entire century was a template and breeding ground for fakers. they poured out whatever they were drinking. they sat around on roman couches and siberian rugs, rubbing their eyelids, smoking pixie sticks and never feeling the same.

He owned, if not 1, but a billion things here and there, walking the streets like a aristocrat, his shoes polished, his hair black and slick. He only wore suits, of course, to show everyone who he was, and where he was from. His skin smelling of the peppers his family grew, and the leaves from the mountains they owned. His eyes, light brown, hazily, the color of spoilt honey, which was rare. They made sure the honey was good, and the butter, and the sugar too. It was the family business. In bags and pockets and boxes, they kept these things safe which they shipped through boats across the world. His suit was dark, and the texture as smooth as whipped tobacco, smelling of textiles from far off places. The pipe he gripped with his teeth was black, picture perfect, pillowing his senses, bettering his smell. He liked how it felt in between his teeth, he liked the smell of the wood. He wanted a wife that could read. He wanted a wife that could teach, and debate and create her own opinions. So he looked everywhere. Even when he went to London to be a Barrister. He wrote letters home, asking his father to fulfill him of his desire. In the finest of ink he described what she should be. Beautiful, learned, tall? No, short. Elegant, refined, respectful.  He leaned back, way back on his chair, dreaming of vines and flowers back at home creeping over his mansion on the edge of the state. He shut his eyes, and opened them, somewhat slowly, he was home now. On his bed, his hat hung on a hook, his bed sheets smelling of the rosewater they had been washed in. his pillow of mint leaves, for better sleep, of course. When he woke up, later, there was a tiny plate with olives in it doused in olive oil. Beside it a cup of tea and a bowl of nuts.

He took his time, this was his summer, he ate the nuts with sugar, and drank the tea like it was the sea, smoothly, tasting every spice and memory that cup could give. it was glorious.

Oh I get told to never get old but the weight unfolds.

I’m a little garcon in my head, with a little fille stuck in bed.

Oh I get told to never get old but the weight unfolds.

I’m a little garcon in my head, with a little fille stuck in bed.