when it's dark and you are in a cave.

i don't know how to write about dancing. i don't know how to write about champagne and jokes that i don't get because i can't understand the language when the music is loud. i don't know how to write about the tiny tradegies of a night, reminding myself of the title of vaclav havels book, because i didn't read the fucking book, just like a chapter, maybe it was the name of the chapter i don't even know, it was called "Living in Truth" Granted, he went on to describe how he went from a playwright to the leader of the liberated Czech Republic, but the notion of living in truth, that title, in highlighted letters flashing through my mind, and i'm asked "t'es soûle?" and i say no cause its bad enough i don't know what anybody's saying, but to be drunk and young in paris and not speak enough is like walking with stilts, and i can't fuck with stilts because in fact i am drunk. i'm doing crossovers in my mind, the next question is yelling "cookies!" and taking my mind for another ride, only to be conquered by a more naive, stupid question, and finally if i just say "mais oui, je suis tres soûle soûle", ah but the new york boy must be careful, he must watch his step, hold his tongue, and when he dances he ought to not be too sporadic.

it was a cave, the fucking restaurant was a cave and i danced in that cave to music that is just absolutely ridiculous and with each graceful step (one in three), i am tagging the questions in my head with yellow paint, in big letters, "liar! salaud! bête!" and even though it's late, the stars still spell out the title of that stupid fucking book.