My knowledge of the Italian language extends no further than what Kevin Kline taught me A fish named Wanda (“My name is Otto, which means eight.”)But last Sunday, streams of blue words echoed under the trees of the roof of my skull. I was sitting in the Musée d’Orsay across from a polar bear, recovering from Vincent van Gogh’s Seventy Variations on the Theme of “The Wheat Field,” when it appeared. The most beautiful sculpture in the building.
Surrounded by two goslings who desperately wanted to look like her but were prevented from doing so by a weak gene pool and the same taste, she walked towards me in a short skirt, high boots, and, above all, a dazzling appearance. If cruel fate does not kill me between now and three seconds, a merciful higher being will prophesy, from the rafters of the building or far above, that my poor heart was not equipped for so much magic.
Father, into your hands I entrust my spirit.
I gathered it was Italian from the stares of one of the goslings and the chatter of a third friend who had apparently sat on my right side moments before. Her silence transcended chatter. I watched as if I was petrified into a polar bear. Cara miamy heart sang, and Come see DulceAnd dov’è l’ufficio turisticoUntil she suddenly turned her head and the dancing of her hair revealed a passing hairpiece – no earrings! – And she walked out of my life again, followed by three amazing creatures who did not deserve the coldness of her shadow.
Now that my lungs were slowly filling with air again, it was only a matter of time before I regained feeling in my legs. She couldn’t be far away. But what if I saw her again? Saying something was out of the question, even if my mouth didn’t turn into desert. What stammering is appropriate for opening the gates of heaven? In the past I would have followed it and admired its beauty from a distance. Now that I’m old, I still know it somewhere Bello Ragazzo What awaits her is that a meeting like this is one of the many drops of dew on life, for which no more suitable place can be found than this old train station.
One day, I will leave this life behind for fifteen square meters in Paris and walk around the Musée d’Orsay all day hoping to be hit again like I was hit on Sunday. A whole life in seconds, a whole world in my head. Every detail, every fiber of the bedsheets, every crevice in every cup, every eyelash surrounding her eye. It will be worth it. The long lines, the cornfields, and the view of the polar bear.
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