I want to get dressed up and drunk like a starlet in old Hollywood working to get a job. I want to look glamorous and fragile and like I might crumble softly to the floor into the pile of blue velvet that is my floor-length gown. I want to wake up at noon with makeup from the night before smudged on my face and lie in disheveled satin sheets as I stare out of my ocean-front window to the waves gently rolling – not crashing – ashore on a grey-skied day. I want to move slowly through a big, empty house with huge open windows as if I am listening for a breeze on a still day of mild-to-cool temperature. I want to walk barefoot through cold sand and dew drop coated grass alike. I want to watch from outside a lonely dive bar on a dusty dirt road with a slight buzz on my mind and the ash of cigarette growing long between my fingers while my boyfriend drives off on a motorcycle in his leather jacket. I want this to happen in the middle of the afternoon and I want to continue looking toward him until he becomes a speck on the horizon (and longer still) without an emotion on my face, but with thoughts in my eyes. I want to be drawn to Sirens and run from cop cars – pockets heavy with stolen goods. I want to fall to an uncovered mattress on the floor with a familiar stranger by my side. I want a lover who’s a partner in crime. I want to watch as the best minds of my generation destroy themselves by madness and drag themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix. I want everything to be sepia tone through the dark lenses of my sunglasses, save for the robin’s egg blue of my car. I want to feel the heat and cool of the sun and wind both as a scarf keeps my hair in place while I drive, top down, down a road where there is nothing to either side, save for, perhaps, some very distant mountains and cacti. I want to slow dance in moonlight with the love of my life who is leaving soon and may not return. These are my thoughts on Lana Del Rey.