Smells like real

Does she have a name? Why all this secret, why all this “it is just a girl” kind of talk?

I went to the bakery. You know, people don’t really like the bread here, they like baguettes… That’s what they call “real bread”. But I like bread here. There is this bakery with two gorgeous young girls: ruby cheeks, glow in their eyes, and that country smile… I think everybody goes there because they are so pretty, but also the bread is baked at the rear of the house, and from the counter standing you can see the big jars of clay full of wheat and the backer at a big table by the old oven; and everything smells so real.

So…

How long should I go before I get one word? I can tell you of course that it is about to rain and that the whole world feels gloomy because the future will be a disaster and there is no way to stop it, being as we are so talented and immature at the same time… It’s like nobody is going to risk the little we have… Or maybe we have too much.

Will you stop this rubbish for me?

How am I supposed to keep on believing in you if you don’t say her name?

Then again, why should I believe in you or in anybody for that matter…

Everything sounds like a song.

Yet your eyes are so steady,
waiting for me to take off my clothes.