I don't really like the morning sun, the curtains are closed, the scent of last night still lingers, two glasses in the dim light, slightly cooled coffee, bitter whiskey dripping in, I don't read the paper, I'm not interested in small talk. Everyone says "I'm not young anymore," but I wonder what that means. It's much better to have a wrinkle or two, a story to tell, A slightly lascivious way of life that no one else can imitate. But, baby, this is my cool and wicked symphony. In the afternoon, I go to a familiar bar. The counter is still sparsely populated. The bartender doesn't say much. He just knows my choice of drink. I get a call from an old man. "How are you?" He asks, but it's too late. I don't have a hobby of reminiscing. I'd rather have my next adventure. Everyone tells me to calm down, but I still feel like I haven't danced enough. I can't get into the popular songs. My rhythm is my own. Some people might frown on how a little decadent it is, but you know what, honey? This is an adult fantasy. When I was young, I had dreams of a white dress and a love like in a storybook. But reality isn't so sweet, and my skin and lips know it. So I won't put on any more pretense. And I'll live with only my true feelings. There's not much left to lose, and the only thing I need to protect is this style. Someone's got something to say, but I'll pretend I don't hear. I choose my own path. If you have a complaint, I'll listen. It's a little dangerous, but isn't that what makes it good? Isn't that right? This is the way I do it. It's super cool, and yeah, it's lewd. Cigarette smoke gets in my eyes, but they're not tears.
