Seven Years

Someone mentioned the soothing breeze,
Delhi was never this kind, and we discussed

The dark clouds gathering; I thought about a
Friend who smoked, and the time we spent
At the deli, where they cancelled my salad;

And though I spent seven years in making,
In forging and in loathing; I still lost to your

Cheap l—e poetry; our grey blank canvas
Pushed aside to replace that Chinese urn,
A blot covered by your noxious jewellery,

Held together, filled and filed by semicolon
Midden; bleared by your fullm—n radiance,

Come fourteen years, who shall remember
This breeze; but skulls and bones and…

My responsibility to myself is always, ‘Am I going to be the commodity that people want me to be, or am I going to do the shit that interests me?’  I have a lot of trouble with material. I don’t like most comedies because I don’t like characters who try to win me over. I don’t like being ingratiated. I don’t like obsequiousness.
—  David Fincher

Sarah Aubel

At Versailles, a Sumptuous Seven-Course Celebration of French Cuisine

When the French have a serious point to make, the country’s pull-out-all-the-stops invitation is to dinner at the Chåteau de Versailles, the vast royal palace 14 miles from Paris that remains as awe-inspiring in the age of Instagram as it was when the oil paintings of French royals that crowd its walls were created centuries ago.

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