Sometimes when night falls and far off pianos play, I remember an ash covered room where I listened to Satie on tiny speakers and dreamt of futures very different from this one.
The ever-present circle of red on the desktop and Skype conversations with far away women.
Sometimes I miss knowing people who would like to sit cross-legged listening to vinyl all night and emerge bleary eyed to buy breakfast in the morning. Those people are climbing stairs into far away attics, carrying children and yawning into the half-light.
Sometimes when night falls and parties begin, I feel nostalgic for unfiltered Gitanes and getting lost in narrow streets with a skinful of whiskey. One would never believe the retro appeal of scenes originally seen through a blur of tears.