The seventh, the fourth, the eight. To quote Regina Spektor, "He's a wounded animal... He's a dying breed"

I speak with a tongue that does not belong to me at times, to help refresh my own mortal words. Score me on my brevity, my benevolence and bohemian ways, for it is nothing but an excuse. Frustration is my gravity, and it weighs on me.

On the contrary, I've thrown my camera away for the time being. Desi Arnaz has relieved me of my post, and I join him in his graceful game. Perhaps it is best I relieve my own eyes of their colour, for it may as well be in dull shades of grey, vivid whites, and monotonous blacks.

À la prochaine, mon chéri.
♥.