It’s a piano first. It’s a piano dancing. Sweet memories, buried. A guy from Brooklin coming from France. Brighter days washed away. The innocence of youth, a remembrance of joy and the meaning of fate. Do you think truth has a color ? Would it look like sunny days ? Sand and fire, the end and someone who’s saved. Your eyes.
It’s not from Golden Age but from Iron. Where things come from does talk about them don’t you think ?Wasteland is T.S. Eliot but Wasteland comes here from that kid in the woods, who’s not singing his native language. Wasteland is full of shadows and questions, written words and scratches and something is alive in these lost times. I guess some souls are hard to murder. There’s the unknown in every second and yet I can recognize beds and walls, Sara’s house and the fourth, a typewriter, stars on the ceiling. A carousel on the bridge, coffee, toys, a garden that used to be mine when I was living in this part of town. I guess there’s the third, too, and even the eighth, Paris is so small I can’t take a cab without running into a life of yesterday. I was about thirty when it started to taste like this. The tray from my mom's house in the South and Saint-Tropez will never be something else but childhood. Do you think it’s a woman’s face that actually represents this everyday company we take in that so-called city of lights ? I never thought about it before that perspective given by a door. Logos should end behind bars sometimes. Tiger is the name of a cocktail, Oliver’s phone was broken, there’s Elle in Deauville and some sweet food that in french we call Mystery. Of course I wrapped it in some authentic hot pure home-made chocolate and then come words, on my pictures, and prints. Can you believe some people truly think we can talk about what we do ?
Wasteland is a stolen title. It’s not mine.