Blondes vs. Brunettes vs. Sleep
I'm thinking of dreaming about about Alison Krauss again.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Wax on. Wax off.
So you wonder about the blonde thing versus the brunette thing with imagery and focus. Stay with the point.
I know his right eye wants to.
Okay - imagine me in the morning waking up with this blonde, barely remembering why or how.
Like she's from Florida, and it took all my charm, all historical knowledge, to define her interpretation of the Roman Empire.
Get into bed, ideal in my head.
Hope she's not married, or else I am dead.
Appreciate the grandeur of my bedroom ceiling.
If she stops plastering my face with piano fingers, I might actually insert toes into slippers to begin morning ritual of ten thousand steps, most of which rarely include the phrase, "so like, can I drive you home?"
Look at this poor guy. Does he even hope to have a life anymore?
A younger looking Cybill Shepherd fills him with terror as he struggles to remember how she actually got there or what legal transactions might have taken place over wine.
Fly on the wall knows it all. Or ask a dog who's always hanging around, remembering everything.
"Emerson, where did she go? Dang, dang!"
"Dude, it's 5AM. I appreciate this whole retrospective deal you've got going here with the ones that got away? But taper it down a few measures."