i love the smell of hangover in the morning. the breath of melancholy and the pungent wrath of liquor dissolving in my mouth, aftermath of all the debauchery. i hate the idea of singing in front of a 40" idiot box clad with inaccurate lyrics and incorrect tempo as the midi format plays along. its insulting.
what i love, are the infinitesimal details that you recognize when the word "tipsy" becomes your automatic defense mechanism. when the world seemed really small, and you cant stop thinking about the heightened/decimated senses. the sleight of hand, the unbearable glances, the tiny little quirks that'd make the conversations more interesting.
i hate the slurred speech. definitely this ones a bummer. i've heard about the irish and compared to them(and my old man) my tolerance with alcohol is ridiculously embarrassing. i love the bittersweet longing of a memory whenever one tries to include that memory in a conversation. the way one does to use the precise word choices and how they 'd refrain to include the undesirable parts. this is worth billions of years of evolution. its intoxicating - literally and figuratively.
because its bittersweet, i also hate it too. but one does not exist without the other. again, billions of years of evolution. the crying, the idea of lamenting, and all the sadness seeping - blaming the alcohol, because the one to blame is nowhere around. and those who can't relate cunningly reach their mobile phones and tinker with utmost pretension. the art of insincerity.
and when the spirits get into the brain. ahh. biodigital jazz, man. all the groovy kind of love, the taste, the insignificant, the hateful, the fling with the night shattered, and blue stars shivering in the distance - goes down the drain. as the sight reaches for redemption. the glowing pain, and all the kisses. all bets are off.
sous le pont d’avignon
l'on y danse, l'on y danse
les belles dames font comme ça
et puis encore comme ça