Spring

Just in Spite

All might be true while not all of it might be real. It doesn't snow, and I won’t put on Bach. Because I’m not so deep, obviously. Because the sun is so unforgiving the ugliness shouts with each step, so loud you're almost tempted to enter into a dark booth and be hungry, even you’re not famished. If there, there where you sit, there is no rose to be seen, you can just pretend you’re happy, and turn your face to the view. For a while think of life as you think of Mykonos, even that’s only a poster on a wall. You already knew that. Even better, like you think of a story that is not yours to live. In this way all might become real while nothing stays true.

love language by Rhiannon McGavin