Heir To Dragonstone

I would take six showers and scrub myself pink and wasteful. I’d lounge in my bed after, hair wet and cozy, reveling in the space-- without work, it would not be rest, but space.

If I had Money, I would go to Europe, and train with classically trained painters. Not to sell, not to show, simply to do. Just because I could. I’d study light and movement, like the ancient masters. I’d buy the blackest-black oil paint, and revel in that sticky void. Use charcoal to the nub and streak my nails dark. 

I would be manicured and polished and straightened and dyed. Smooth, supple, slim and soft to the touch. If I had money, I would revel in exhaustion as a novelty. I would run and fence and climb and stretch, ache and pant and sweat. 

I would tailor my coats-- buy cloaks. Express through silky ribbon and rough lace. Buy a dress to be torn out of it, but make sure to kiss it better. Wear gloves of leather or cotton or tulle. Wiggle my toes in shiny boots. Buckle myself for the flashing lights, and strip down to casual elegance. 

Have a house. No. Have some land, and water too. A river of my own to play and hear the pretense rush and crash against the rocks. Buy animals. Own.

I would cook for and be cooked for. I would sleep and lounge and party and drink and vomit and be cleansed to do it again. I would read.

And I would write. Film as I breathe.