ジョシュ・ブローリンのインスタグラム(joshbrolin) - 3月4日 01時29分


23 years old, displaying myself or truly immersed in the hope, as I bounced though cobblestoned Paris, that I might, through Rimbaud, Rilke or a bottle of wine with remnant cork in it, actually emerge as a wordsmith someday known, somehow found. I’d half-consciously constructed my paint swathed cowboy, and hyper-sexed Joycean curiositor and roamed every weekend through Père Lachaise with baguette, some cheese and alcohol, always giving it away because that is what I imagined would be my in to people, and their respective little adolescent tornados. I’d never want to go back, be one of those fifty year old dudes trying to sage up to the young ones, desperate to be listened to, praised and imagined great by the unshowered few. No, I’ll take my family, and all the memories of adventurous experiments that put me right where I am. I long for nothing but this fully found, inhaled, and finally realized in some form of an amen.
Photo by @olivier.chateau


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