Me, I cut, and my Baku is, I think, a cavalry company in 1645.
I think of Baku when I feel depressed. I’ve never been to Azerbaijan and before last year I had no intention of ever going. But now, it’s my happy place. The place I go to when I’m scared or sad or feeling anything that is at all unpleasant. I’m in a little cafe in Baku, wearing something fabulous, perhaps the elegant black jumpsuit I’ve worn once that sits in the back of my wardrobe, along with some oversized sunglasses and the glittery black kitten heels I’m saving for a special night. I have a glass of champagne in my hand. I’m straight-edge so I’m not sure why I would ever want to drink that, or even if I could in a Muslim country but in my happy place, I do drink it as I look out on the Caspian Sea.
Then I open my eyes and I’m back to reality…
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