Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Six Trained Horses

In the borrowed flashbacks of my life, I will be a wayward girl running to her exasperated father on Parisian streets. With an arid expression he will catch me, strong hands in scented pits. On delicate stonework he will spin, delighted to see his daughter.
“D'où vous cachiez-vous?”
“Papa, qui est le plus grand pilote?”
“Vous, mon chéri.”
“Encore. Plus fort.”
“VOUS! Mon et seulement. Je t'aime.”
“Je t'aime, mon père.”
Later, we pass a frisbee in Bois de Boulogne and remember mother.


  1. If someone, who speaks French, understands what I was trying to say but see places I went wrong, can they just point that shit out and offer an alternative.
    Merci beaucoup.

  2. Better yet. Just e-mail me.

  3. Nicole?


    I have no fucking idea what you are trying to say in french.

  4. That’s not French. Rob is inventing his own languages again.