Seleczione Gastronomia

Italian wine is good. Thanks for that. You always had some at yours, and now that I’m drinking some it’s like I almost can relive one of our dinners there. Like a glorious one where I managed to turn on the stove (why was it so hard to light that damn gas stove, anyway?), and that we made steak and salad and everything tasted great and we had a nice convo and, as we got tipsy, we flirted and had some nice slow-motion silences in which we stared into each other’s eyes and smiled; your hand reached across the table and grabbed mine, both still smiling and Spotify dropping those chill indie tunes one after the other, as it was dark outside and just the right amount of hygge indoors. Then I’d wash the dishes and meet you on the sofa, all the lights off and just the candles shinning in the appropriate luminosity. We took cover under your blanket and slowly stripped naked, but it wasn’t as sexual as it was trippy and tantric and then there was just skin and music and the fire behind you, and my hands were warm over your legs and back and arms and breast and back to the arms again and I never wanted it to end, but it did end with us fucking. It was glorious, oh so glorious. And now I just googled your name (still am blocked on all your social media) and one of the first pictures that came out is one of those when you were in the media and you look fucking stunning and so real, so real, but so not here and I need a wine refill. Give me a sec. And I’m crying a little because this feels sad. I’m celebrating (maybe it’s a good excuse to booze alone) that today I officially signed the purchase contract for my apartment and I don’t wanna jinx it so I know this is meaningless, like, publishing it here, so fuck it. Yeah, this is the most serious commitment I’ve made in a non-romantic sense, and fuck, now it’s really happening and who gives a flying fuck but me, right? But I’m like 99% certain you’ll read this anyway, so now you too also know. Remember when I told you my plans a few times and it seemed so far away and unreal, there from a distance, and now I’m in debt for like 25 to 30 years or so, but I fucking own something big in motherfucking Copenhagen, and I don’t even speak the fucking language. How ridiculous is that? But I’m an adult and this is what we do, right? We buy big toys, and this is my dollhouse (me being the doll, because you are a doll -pun there- but you aren’t here.) Anyway, so this is what a drunk-ish (don’t like feeling slipping down the alcoholism road again) guy would write to: A) Say “Fuck you, Kerouac, I’m coming for you again;” and B) Change the rhythm of my writing a bit, just for the fun of it. Do you like it? I do. It’s different, flows well. And, as usual (in the last three months,) I’m talking to you, directly, but there’s just silence at the other end of the line. Am I breaking the rules here? I don’t think so. You explicitly said that I shouldn’t write you (like fucking ever again), so here your consent would be at stake. Yet, technically, am not writing to you (but at you) in a medium that you could only see if you wanted to: hence, consent! So yeah, I cracked the code. That deserves a toast (I just drank a tad more, this Italian wine is the shit and I’m already looking at Nemlig to procure some more.) So, I think I’m coming to the end here. It was entertaining, wasn’t it? I wanted it to be a lifetime, you know? Us. There’s this song by Hot Chip. It’s called “One life stand.” Thought about it today, just a couple of hours ago, while I biked by the lakes. (Now I’m playing it on Spotify.) Makes you think. And dance. But like a sad dance. Yet a dance. And a thought. (And now, before I copy/paste this shit into my blog, I’m looking at your picture on Google one last time. You are beautiful, C. You are -but you probably know that already, don’t ya? Ah, fuck me… I guess I’ll always have the memories. That’s all we are, in the end. Memories in other people’s minds.)
Ciao, bella!

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