Radio Nostalgia EP 07

Today on Radio Nostalgia, "(L)MIRL" by Deftones.

They met in the most ordinary way, on vacation. "He is from Naples but, just like everyone else, he has a house here and comes for holidays,” Mirea says. It’s cold on the scooter, but I hug her, I love her, life is really simple when in short sleeves, the same streets among the stars.

The things to say, the things to do - find a job, nurture your dreams, life! Simply, resides on a couch, the dirty sheets, the same smell. I wash them when you're not here because I like to feel your soul, your touch - you! Among the folds of pillowcases, you were just an inch away from me, oh dear happiness of mine, where have you gone? An intercontinental flight is much simpler than this, it’s just a few kilometers, a wall, the walls! Those that didn't matter, ended up suffocating you. Never lost my smile, I never lost my smile. Let’s go to the sea. An elderly couple holds hands. The expectations, us, running.

My friends are told “You don’t go dancing alone, we go together!”, and I find myself alone in my togetherness, would rather be sleeping and meeting you in my dreams! You play the piano and I just sing along, people clapping but we have to leave this hotel room - I wake up. Ice creams with the heat, the bars, the empty fridge, the joints are wooden, worn by woodworms. The haste, I need to escape, but not like you did - I need to escape from the future, I already hate it. What do I do? Do I stay here or just pull the trigger?

The possibilities, percentages, the effort to start over, keeping the cornerstones, the constants of a quarter of a century - in the world, there is nothing else. A pigeon has sat down - please enjoy your peace.

Flowers grow between the cracks, it’s one o’clock, I walk home by feet, I feel! It’s getting warmer. Streets smell like home, maybe I can believe in life again, too. Just trying to get through another day. This girl has abs, she passes by me. I still believe it’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s your fault, it’s just. What mistakes did I make? I often end up thinking about it.

There’s ash on the floor, its incredible ability to stay intact, traffic light is always red. The city smells of beauty and popcorn, but at the corners, it stinks of complexity in the syntax and unlikely interactions. When do you ever speak? I see my short hair in the reflection of a closed shop, it’s one o’clock but there are people watching me walk, I know because I see them out of the corner of my eye. And I wish it were you! Sitting in the passenger seat because one morning you woke up and lost my smile among the creases of the sweatshirt I told you to buy, I was in the right place.

The truth is, you were not the wine and dry leaves on the branches kind of person - beauty does not belong to you, your eyes are closed, your iris cold. A rabbit, a staged scene, what an actor - back to the origins! You will tell me, I’m always in the same place. The truth is, you’re not elsewhere, you’re chasing despair, your thousand lives. You wisely told me “It’s not the walls but the people that make the homes” - but my home is bigger. I live for what I see around me, you don’t watch, and that’s a difference! You see! You see! You see! You see! Passively. To watch, your greatest burden, my greatest delight.

Your inferiority freeze-dried in the inability to grasp the beauty of the sound of cicadas. “Too many layers, you’re heavy, when will you stop being the intellectual? No one likes it, I don’t understand your jokes” - you’re right, I’d like to laugh a lot, lot, laugh, lot, laugh a lot. And so I say, fine, you can laugh, but be careful! Your cheeks are wet, the pillow is streaked. It’s too late, but what fault do I have? If I was born by the sea, I’m twenty-five and have such a desire for love, oh to be loved...

I have no days left to feel the weight of my fragile body under my toes, and the sunset kisses me. I wonder if those moon tears looking at me think, oh.. look at that poor woman. She has a hundred days on her shoulders and two bruises of night painted on her face, her softened gaze...

How long has it been since she closed her eyes to just imagine, just imagine, just imagine a hug? Warm, like the sun, sweet, like the skin of salt, and fresh like cherries on the lips that she uses as lipstick when she doesn’t feel like losing her childhood passing it to another waste of time..

And so I can scream, I can scream, I can scream, I can scream, let me scream, let me scream, let me scream, let me scream.

Sasha Pivovarova Models for Dazed Magazine