Be My Guest / Spreading The Love / Week 6 / Day 1
sounds shared by Cecile Poulain
The Mountain Was a Gift - Palomino - Xure
[ chide ]
Original words by [ Dakota Loesch ]
you’re trying to remember why the fuck you live here.
is it the cold-wet feet every night for six months straight? is it that miserable oppressive feeling of double-digit negatives? is it that you dig a harsh wind-chill first thing in the morning? or maybe you like the fact that everyone’s convinced they’re slowly dying from prolonged exposure to subzero temperatures, and therefore too busy to meet-up or make-out or mess-around a little bit. this city is too cold to be sexy, maybe that’s why you live here. or perhaps you’re a big fan of that brand new war-on-the-poor style price hike on subway fares. or how impossible it is to score decent dope in this weather. or how you run into exes in any neighborhood you might even halfway consider hanging-out in. maybe you just enjoy that unheated closet of a bedroom you’re renting. maybe you’re into the mice that live in your building. maybe, just maybe, you love being broken down and busted and bankrupt on all fronts with no solution in the foreseeable future.
whatever the case, you’re trying to remember why the fuck you live here. and then something remarkable happens. some act of pure magic. some unexpected event that stuns both mystics and meteorologists alike: the temp breaks forty degrees fahrenheit for the first time since early october. and the sun peaks out long enough to melt away all the gotham-grey slush. the whole city thaws at once and it turns into a flood of forgotten flesh: shoulder blades, upper thighs, ankles, fore arms, all of the pieces of people that they pack away for hibernation. it turns into the return of the summer bodies. and, baby, they all come out of the woodwork. every kind of babe imaginable, from all four corners of gog and magog. and all of them want to hang-out. and make-out. and fool-around. and you will fall in love too many times. and you will do sketchy drugs well beforenoon on a tuesday. and you will be too high to eat anything but an ice cream sandwich. and you will make a crush-induced suicide pact to die in your lover’s arms like a day-drunk pompeii impression, locked forever and ever in your tonsil-hockey death embrace for all of the greater downtown area to see. and you will remember why the fuck you live here.