someone's craving french caramel

in the years past, i have sat by this window, wishing it were better insulated. now i edge my chair as close to its dark pane as possible, wishing for some cool breath from the other side. it is hot. i do not like hot. i'm not sure i really like being cold, either. but it's the hot memories that burn through my tissue paper patience. it's the hot ones that send me into a frenzied search for the fast forward button. thus i crave the cold. why winter is eerily comforting. why i refused to drink hot tea on the warmest of windbitten irish afternoons. that is why norway, why iceland. similar to my spout in paris. i didn't know the city. i didn't know the swells or the stills, the grime or graffiti, the jerk and rattle on line 6, or 11. the brown one. (i could never remember the numbers) that's why, once i found myself there, i couldn't see the place as a student sees it. i couldn't see it anywhere because i still wasn't there. paris was an idea of else. like winter. like cold, iceland and norway. where i want to be now.


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