Black or blond men. Men wearing black sweaters. Tags on walls. Cats. Easy. Wasps. Rap. Hip-hop. KFC. Rum. Spanish salami. Bad jokes. Feeling stupid. Laughing out loud. Walking alone in the street. Listening to music. Using iTunes. Stencils. Green t-shirt. Jeudis. Blanquette de veau. Letters B&C together. Asterix syndrome. Skate parks. My full flat. Sitting in the couch you would probably choose before I would. Lovers. Time. M.

Oh, how I love you ♫

It's so good to get feelings back. Feelings that were lost and forgotten through these months of mourning and hopelessness. Waking up with the sun, high-speed cappuccino drinking to save bathroom-time, better dreams. Recognize myself in him, change the minor detail in a conclusive clue, the smallest hand stroking in a proof of love, the shorter glance in a first-move attempt. I'd like to tell him "what are you waiting for ?" and "i feel better with you" but my memories forbid it to me. A new start, new words, that's of sound mind. We're nothing for the moment, certainly not rabbits. But We are. Cantwaitformonday.

As long as you ask me, why not to tell the truth ? I do.
But I'm terribly lost. I want my mind's holidays.

(Mimsy Farmer, Klaus Grünberg in More by Barbet Schroeder)

The only bulb ignited in the cold lounge I'm in burns my eyes. I'm tired of not sleeping enough but i weirdly like it.
I loved every piece of that short week-end, it ended the way it started, i mean in a good way. New clothes, daddy's fried fish, daddy's "good-week" kiss, Morgane's "i-love-you" kiss, Whims perf, coming back home, seeing them all, laughing, boozing and smoking pot with em, feeling like i could never be happier, and starting again the following day. Feeling happy again, even the surroundings were unusual. The band was good despite their tambourine-drummer who made shit all night long -i was not there-.

I'm sorry i have to admit i'm fond of Del Toro. Can't hide it any longer. He is WONDERFUL. Watch him.

I also saw Sfar's Gainsbourg. As a consequence my music library has a new artist. Biopics will kill my hard disk.

January '10. Happy new year Marine. Can't you fucking sleep ? What a shame, you shouldn't, he's not that good though. Undoing himself this way, he must be lost, hun'. You know I know all of this mum. You just can't help and I'm sorry. I wish I could be unsensitive once in a while, leave my heart on a pavement, give it to a melting snowman, or sell it to the man I buy fruits to at the market. A heart for kiwis. It's free.

One month of nightmares. The fear of losing him. Mentally. His wisdom, the way he speaks, the way he feels things, music, fucking awesome dialogues in movies. His wonderful blue eyes, the little dark patches inside. This fear is litteraly breathtaking, makes me sick and empty.

I went back to school. Put every hope in a single person who's finally not worthing it. I'm listless, bored of it. I believe i'll never find anyone else, but i don't want to cry for it. I'm desperate but not sad. It's just i can't feel anything. I don't want help, i just want to see him and talk to him, to slap his cheeks so they turn blue, make him change his way.

The thing is, i'm no Superman.

(beniciodeltororemindsmeofyou)

I am deeply in love. Again. M.

L'impression d'une éternité, le temps de deux mois seulement. Seulement. Des soirées plus belles les unes que les autres, avec des gens plus "macchu picchu" les uns que les autres. Des plages, une forêt, des maisons, la nuit, on n'y voit rien mais on marche quand même, pas le choix. Je garde le cap autant que je peux. J'oublie, ça fait du bien. Je danse, ça aussi ça fait du bien. Au Jilly's Rockworld à Manchester, Naive new beaters au port, Elisa au manoir, Tryo à Landerneau, chez moi, partout. Et puis j'emménage, petit à petit, Billy par Billy, sans oublier Benno. Je pose mes jou-joux sur les étagères, je remplis mes placards de conserves, ustensiles inutiles et autres produits d'entretien. Je vais vivre là deux ans. Je n'en peux plus d'attendre. Deux semaines d'été, du vrai, j'en ai encore besoin, surtout en sachant ce qui m'attend. Non mais vous vous rendez compte ? Les Yardbirds mes amis ! Avant ceux-ci, les Monty Picon, nos pirates adorés que l'on garderait bien à Brest pour chaque évènement musical. Mais bon, j'pense toujours à la rentrée, pour des motifs plus ou moins raisonnables, hâte de reprendre le rythme scolaire. Comme quoi. M.

Migraine. Les rayons du soleil n'arrangent rien, je m'isole, ferme les volets. J'entends les gamins d'en face hurler comme des gorets sur le stade olympique qu'est la pelouse soigneusement entretenue par leur papa le dimanche matin. Miossec me chante des trucs tristes, je trie mes photos.
Une page s'est tournée hier. Vendredi, 11h, une liste de résultats, un sourire colonisant mon visage. Je suis diplomée, c'est irréversible. Un des seuls trucs dans la vie que l'on a pas envie de regretter, d'effacer. Deux ans de travail. Journée parfaite en bonne compagnie, une errance agréable dans les rues pavées de Landerneau, une dernière expédition des BT au lycée, avant de rentrer.
Plus envie de penser, de pleurer, de craindre l'avenir. L'été sera beau. M.