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To His Radiant Harlot,
About five minutes ago, I was doom-scrolling on Twitter and I saw the funniest fucking meme of my life. I mean, it wasn’t actually that funny but for some reason I was laughing so hard I almost pissed myself.
Maybe that can be attributed to the fact it’s about 4 AM right now.
But the meme reminded me of you. You don’t get to see it, because you just wouldn’t appreciate it. But I thought of you. So I had to write this out. I could text you - hell I could call you. But this is so much more fun.
I have a question for you: when you lay on your bed in Jolly Old England, do you ever look up at the ceiling and try to peer through, as if you’re looking at the sky?
When I’m really tired I feel like I can see the stars.
And before you start - it’s not vertigo, you absolute ass. Don’t act all superior because you don’t have an iron deficiency even though given your weird incest ancestors, you really should. It’s those Bond genes, probably.
Anyways, I miss a lot about Austin. But the stars have to be at the top of the list. Henry, I gotta take you there sometime, it’s truly the best thing on earth.
Better than fucking coffee.
I think Austin would make you all, like itchy at first. It’s so not England. It’s warm and bright and joyful - maybe even a bit spicy. But I know eventually you’d fall into it, catch the Texas vibe. Maybe even find yourself covered in barbecue sauce from head to toe.
Irrelevant, sorry.
Anyways - I used to climb through the window of my room like a little Mexican Spider-Man and plop myself on the roof when I couldn’t sleep. It was unlike anything in the world. The roof tile was always cold and uncomfortable but it gave me the perfect view of the uncensored sky. (Don’t tell my mom. Or June. They’d kill me.)
I never learned which constellations were which or any of that shit (way more June’s forte) but I would trace my own personal patterns into the stars. Because you know me- I like to pave my own way.
I always liked the saying “reach for the sky” or “reach for the stars” because to me it somehow felt tangible, like if I tried hard enough I could grasp the sun on my fingertips. Ad Astra, baby. That’s the memo.
Sometimes I feel that now, when I’m with you and everything’s hot and fast and desperate. It’s like I’m cradling the sun - and it takes everything in my power to keep it burning so the world doesn’t fall apart.
That must’ve made no sense. I don’t know man, I’m fucking exhausted.
Have fun living in your cloudy, cloudy hell.
Stay starry-eyed,
A
P.S. From Juliette Drouet to Victor Hugo, 1835:
I will not tell you to what degree you are dazzling and to the birds of sweet song who, as you know, are none the less beautiful and appreciative.