I want cool, delicious shirts. Shirts like Gatsby's, that I can throw in a heap and sigh at. And shoes, cut from a single piece of leather, dyed to a honey colour, or lime and tangerine, and black, of course, kept in their shapes by mahogany trees. I want to not put these on, and sip cold rose and apple tea while I drift into a hazy half-sleep under the shade of a striped awning. And then rouse myself to crunch up gravelly byways, silent, save for the growl of a distant Vespa, a lone bird call, a tinny radio somewhere, and dust twinkling in the sun.
|