I want to put on my blue, suede shoes and dance.
I want to run around with sparklers.
I want forty-one.
I want to lie in the sun and daydream.
I want to bake cupcakes and l i c k the bowl.
I want to read all the books hidden under my bed.
I want to go on picnics and pick flowers.
I want borrow Bresson’s camera.
I want to p l a y mario kart.
I want people to burst in to spontaneous song in the street.
I want to star gaze.
I want to listen to music all day.
I want to steal Donne’s words, Wilde’s wit and Camus’ clarity.
I want to sip tea and recite poetry.
I want a single day of perfect understanding.
I want to wear my pyjamas all day.
I want to sing in the r a i n.
I want to hide notes in babushka dolls.
I want to find love letters in antique desks.
I want to do cartwheels down grassy hills.
I want to be ambitious.
I want to be content.
I want to write poems about blue birds and nothing in particular.
I want to crack a crème brulé.
I want to click my heels together three times.
I want o n e more hour in every day.
