the world spins
and the world is your oyster:
you are an artist
as a young woman or man;
the ice that glistens
on top of the river on the bank of montparnasse ;
you are the paris
of the rooftops and cinq a sept
and of the eiffel tower
shimmering brightly in the dark of the night;
you are the only shard
in the strong currents of your beating heart.
you are alive
and you are an artist.
the film just hit me. bam! result.
how had i forgotten that with art, it’s the aftertaste that counts?