A Moth In Paris


I lived to be three hundred in my past life. This life, today I am seventeen years old. I know everything about anything. I have no family my best friends are drug addicted prostitutes living in a squat in Paris. They burned things for fun, I rescued moths from drowning in puddles. Lifeless poor things, I scooped them out and cupped them in my hand. I danced with Bob the drunk and fell asleep in his arms. I shot heroin and fucked rich men. I was twelve years old. I remember when I was two hundred and sixty seven years old in my past life as a hermit living in the mountains in Oregon. I looked fifty seven but my bones wanted darkness. They were tired. I had a full life as a hermit. I had forty gardens, little ones full of strange herbs the ones who gave me my extended life also gave me these strange spices. A licorice mix of cotton and lavender. It had orange buds and cried, literally cried. It was my favorite plant. A crying plant. It’s tears were used for a medication I had created for moths. I had discovered this plant could extend the lives of moths. When I died, i swore to myself that when I was reborn I would find my house that I had when I was hermit and find my crying plants and take them to Paris.

I had been in Portland for six weeks, living in fancy hotels, getting drunk getting really drunk something I never did in my past life. There was no need, everthing was beautiful, perfect. I had everything I could ever want in my plants. I had plants that could talk to me for hours about the place they came from, a place in the stars. I had purple plants that danced exactly at three forty seven in the morning. Plants that called out my name whenever I drank milk. The crying plant was my golden child. The ones who gave me my extended life, told me that I had to plant her in the dark by the roses. She only bloomed in the dark. She was a shy plant. She captured my soul.

Portland was a fucking joke, the rich fed dope to the poor to keep them in line, it was a mess. I craved Paris, I craved a hundred years ago when opium dens existed, now it was suck a dick fuck a trick behind the seafood restaurant. I missed my gardens, I missed my friends. It was time to go back on the road again, I had enough of fucking occupy, of the dismal days dwindling down going nowhere.

I headed to the train yard otherwise known as the graveyard, hitched a freight to San Fransisco where I fell asleep holding a bottle of sake in the rain. I saw the bridge, I saw how fucking lame Haight and Ashbury had became since the last time. Sell your tits for tie die.

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