Week nights here are more like fever dreams and I need to write them down to remember.
We met someone in Montparnasse, a photographer claiming his recent sobriety had made him "high on life" (who says that?). Incidentally, his pictures were insanely mediocre in a way that makes Terry Richardson look like a genius. It must be the world's worst kept secret that anything that ever mattered was produced under the influence of something.
We're no different, Henry and I. With poison in our blood we're on top of the Eiffel Tower with two options: fly or fall. Without it we're just sad. There's nothing romantic about it, I've tried to do things differently and I always wished it was easier but it's not.