memoirs of a pianist.

I

Pilgrimage to a land yet unconquered. thoughts squandered as we row, rowing towards the infinite. shit, it almost feels like the horizon gets smaller with each memory of home. 

it held a signature scent: cinnamon with a hint of burnt extra virgin olive oil. I can taste the nectar dripping from the honeysuckles once in my backyard. they laminated the brick wall before the fire.

I live alone, on a boat with many. A shoebox to occupy along with a complementary sheet of cardboard and plywood. no other women on this boat free of suicidal thoughts. no other women on this boat to share lip other than stick. I live alone, and have yet to discover a home outside of myself.

II

these men drown in opulent after shave, and the next gold digging vagina thrown at them as a result of their bank statement. I serve them breakfast, lunch, dinner and yield such surprise at the request of lobster and steak! 

"Some caviar girl, make it quick."
"Anything else?" Our boss told us to always ask them if they wanted more. Though I knew one factor that wouldn't change. 
These women and their "needs". 
"Some of the best wine you've got, for everyone of course."

The life of serving those who need not be served. 

III

The lull of bass tones from the voices of tall, powerful men clouded the room. Flying above them were the tweets of their pet canaries singing their uninviting tunes.

"Oh but darling you need him to be educated, Yale or Harvard? These are the men of tomorrow, the men we should be chasing!"
"Monica, I am the one who should be chased, after all, I do cook."
"As a woman should! Don't let these years slip away without latching onto a man, now. Your parents raised you with more decency!" 

Manners. All a part of the elegant design of this holographic universe. Am I the only one aware? Seem to be.