Emilie Simon makes me want to write. I could never say no to Emilie Simon.

Your heart, it tastes like the imagination of wine. The source, the honour soft like feathers, soft like a delicate paintbrush used only to trace the arching line over an eye. Morals and eel teeth, stranger things have come from this. Integrity brave like the moon, but I’ve been bruised like the sweetest kisses. Another following a light, another moth moment of fluttering certainty. Here is pride.

Now I know what I look like from the outside, but you are farther, so more so. I can see what I have a chance to become. Not you, but similar. The chance of righteous amusement in every quirk of hand, my tongue.