...want to be kissed!

Ô Muse ! spectre insatiable,
Ne m'en demande pas si long.
L'homme n'écrit rien sur le sable
À l'heure où passe l'aquilon.
J'ai vu le temps où ma jeunesse
Sur mes lèvres était sans cesse
Prête à chanter comme un oiseau ;
Mais j'ai souffert un dur martyre,
Et le moins que j'en pourrais dire,
Si je l'essayais sur ma lyre,
La briserait comme un roseau.

Alfred de Musset

I learned this at school about 20 years ago, I still know it by heart. Honestly, I wish it wouldn't occupy all that precious and limited memory space in my brain and I could remember the code for my answerphone instead.
Funny what we all remember. And I can't get my calls in absence.

Oh, the blip: I had a small blank sketchbook in the post, waiting to be filled by me, to be send back and to go on tour across the US, to Australia and to London.
It scares me so much that it's still left in the envelope. I know, also 'real people' take part at the sketchbook project, not only 'real artists' but the blank pages impress me.

So muse. Please snog me. With tongue!