sometimes i wish, i do

that i could breathe and not cough. that it wasn't 0ºC and raining in paris. that lawrence earp could do my motet analysis for me. so that then i could prepare my bibliography for my paper on the mosque at al-azhar in peace. that i could snap my fingers and a lonely planet/lets go morocco would appear in my hand and i could instantaneously book hostels. cheap ones, with no sketchy people. that i could stock librarie imagigraphe with wanderlust stationary, so i don't have to buy tacky high-heeled andy warhol paper. that the things sold at museum gallery bookstores didn't always break my wallet (except in sweden, where i bought a book in the icons series about extraordinary objects bound upside-down for 20 kronor, which is about 3 dollars). that somehow, someone could meet me once on the street and get me, take me at face value, and not be blown asunder. that the desks in st genevieve library could be as accomodating as those in michelet. that my legs didn't ache. that i could play the flute again. that i could have a pocket version of maéva to smile and blink at me.