I feel like silk. If it were chilled, I'd want to breathe it. I want the car radio to come back to its loyal, functional self. I miss reclining. I miss a dimly lit velvet touch. I want an easy chair; those vintage loungers with broad wooden, varnished handles. I want my long hair back. For there to be greenery around; not just hopelessly predictable money plants in green wine bottles: the standard aesthetic trick in every cafe's book. Why can't we just flow and oscillate between a beach, and back then. "Here comes the sun little darling, little darling.." I miss certain friends, the properly mad ones, and the established insane. I miss nameless black and white shots of vaguely familiar grins. And I wonder where, and how -- if yes -- is the better place, that I might want to be in, on this date, and three after.