Place Vendome inside Grand Palais.
Staggeringly unforgettable.
July 10, 2011
Chanel Haute Couture Fall Winter 2012
This entry was posted on Sunday, July 10th, 2011 at 11:04 am and posted in Personal Style / General Fashion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.- Pablo Neruda
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And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."- "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, T.S Eliot
Penny Sparkle 
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