That she was an anomaly- but a pleasant one. That she stirred a thought, even in the shower. The one in red, walking the grey streets of winter. Click-clack. The sound of her tiny heels tapping the pavement. She dreaded the collective, the result of an adolescence of mediocrity. That she was the girl looking up at the clouds when stuck in traffic. Sheets of clouds moved deliberately across the ash-stained canvass. To be anywhere, fleetingly happy, soon.
Nights of near-eventful recollections, hazy with swirling glasses and smoke. Of la-dee-da conversationalists and their wide-eyed sidekicks, of genuine fun, with moments reminiscent of a stylus on the spinning record. Singing along with Julie London at the Gin Palace. Yes, do fly me to the moon.