January 14th, 2011

Breakfast

Shameless theft

I scribble your words on the inside of my sweaty palms lest the words escape me once the feeling of the moment evaporates.  I cut and paste from your life into mine.  I squeeze every last drop of inspiration that transforms itself into words written on the mirror with red lipstick, on old photographs with a pair of scissors, on pale skin with a razor.  And I guess this shameless theft is ok.  Or so says Jim Jarmusch.