im going to meet a dork of a guy with shaggy hair who dresses up at night to work in a mariachi band. well run away and live in spain and eat the best of the best of foods and ill wear long white skirts with sandals and hell wear trousers and loose shirts and then well come back to the city and well get a white studio and well sing each other to sleep in our white sheets and plant a garden in our window box in the polluted air and ill work at the coffee shop and hell go to school and we live so low key, so simple and clean. then well go to the circus and sniff cocaine up our nostrils after another fire swallowing act and well come home to a campfire and an uncomfortable bed and then well run away to the beach and think a whole lot and then go on our own seperate ways to our parents and family and then finally meet each other on haight and head to jamaica were well listen to raggae and smoke a lot and when thats all over well head back home and well work 9 to 5 and build a house and have a kid and become the couple next door. and every other month hell dress up as a mariachi band player and ill wear flowing white skirts and well march off to haight street for a night on the town. and that would be the end of my life and i would be happy and i would pretend that my whole life was written as though it were a francesca lia block book and id never use a period until it was over. and now it is.