When his mind is idle, he thinks of her.
—What are you thinking about?
If he’s with her, he loses track of time.
—So late to get home, why?
She wants long periods for herself.
—Why are you going away for the weekend?
—Why are you going to Brazil, again?
She doesn’t like the same things I do.
—You didn’t leave the hotel room, why?
She requires him in the middle of the night.
—You left our bed at midnight, why?
She texts him at the movies.
And he writes back.
Math’s a richer lover than I am.
—Who’s going to pay for that Brazil ticket, then?
—Could I go?
—Can you pay it?
—Then you can’t.
She’s a powerful lover, Maths.
She gave him a job.
She gave him fame.
She gives him money.
She gets him friends.
I’m just a girl.
And she… she’s Maths.
Un beso como el primer pie en la arena Un beso como el asiento de atrás, tras la playa Un beso como la cinta de casette que se ha derretido Un beso como un semáforo bajo el sol hace treinta años Un beso como robar una patata frita de la cocina Un beso como tus
We’re editing together, head to head. It’s a bio, a blurb, maybe something in between. He’s Neil Gaiman, (I know Amanda is behind me, reading something else) and he’s mumbling a bit, as he re-reads the text: words flow until they get stuck. I take it from the place he left off. —I think that what it
I’m an artist first and foremost. But people just want to hear about how I make money. It puzzles me, because don’t make that much. I just save beautiful things. Yet above the frustration of bringing something up and out and not seeing it shine like it did on my mind, I’m thankful. My mind