Eyes Wide Shut remixed with my hazy musings on French Romanticism

A morning with a low cover of moist mist blanketing the city enveloping its denizens, while coquettishly enticing me to remain underneath the warmth of my Canadian goose down sleeping bag. It is here, nestled in the warmth of my thoughts, that I build castles in the air.

 It's the kind of morning that takes me back to my jungle- sans chill. This morning, though, I shun that island paradise. In lieu, I desire to travel outside my requisite comfort zone to a morbidly fantastical land conjuring up phantasmal imaginings. What has triggered this fetish? I soak up the dreary, dreamy landscape from my balcony window- this morning's instigator and stimulant.

Through the diaphanous trance of fog, or perhaps haze a more apropos term as I watch rising coal smoke haphazardly dancing in formless shapes from the rooftop army of apartments standing at attention that partially invade my view of a quiet forest refuge in the near distance. Little toy soldiers of black smoke wafting up to the heavens and dissipating, exhausted of their tour of duty keeping apartment dwellers cozy and warm throughout their night watch. In their wake of destruction, though, residuals find refuge lodging deep inside my lungs. It is this feeling of congestion that triggers my morning predilection to be a fringe dweller looking into some delusive scene of yore.

My body compass innately points to coordinates: Latitude Longitude: 48° 51' 44'' North 2° 21' 3'' East 
The setting: The Industrial Revolution of Baudelaire's existence- my fantasia, or fool's paradise... I must excogitate a phantasmagorical identity for the journey into flesh, fantasy & soporific libations. Perhaps an androgynous persona would be most behooving. All the better to straddle the best of both worlds.

Astride the magic carpet floating atop the pillowy chiffon mist I travel thru time. Somehow I end up at a  rickety square table of dark mahogany stained with forgotten memories of the few so inclined to take on such suffering with compatriots akin to the infamous Club of Assassins, where Baudelaire & Gautier took refuge, under the character "Dr. Moreau" from their world rife with the rising Bourgeoise that were steadily multiplying from the successes (?) of the Industrial Revolution.  I seek shelter in the back of the smoke-filled room. Through the haze I focus on the cast of characters.

They reek of last evenings' mischief,  criminal congress, and other such lascivious behaviors that accompany such folly, or wisdom- however you wish to interpret. All the while awaiting the next evenings encounters while idling away daytime drudgery by instead investigating such pleasures as the city's art galleries, the flourishing cafes, the architectural monuments to humanity, etc.

Enough waxing poetic about my story. I tire now of this. It's time to recess into the depths of my dark consciousness and, alas, put down the keyboard to end my story in my own private world. Regalia to finish off my story?

Perhaps I'll feel so inclined at a later date to divulge the outcome...

Henri Matisse's portrait of Baudelaire, a Parisian dandy...