Every time I feel like posting something I'm missing the words and when I find them again I've always lost the will to write. And in spite of my silence you're still here, leaving me darling comments to read when I'm feeling lonely.
Paris is a strange sort of fairy tale these days; dark and hostile, a world of its own sporadically lit up by glimmers of hope that things will soon be better. I keep telling people the same old
stories over and over and instead of making friends I get sick of hearing my own voice.
I spend most of my time in a triangle between Printemps, Café de Flore and Avenue Montaigne. La Coupole is treacherous ground since I spotted the back of his head in the mirror by the bar. They call me sometimes to ask where I am, I guess it's some form of compliment. Either way I'm slowly awakened from my winter's sleep, getting ready to live just a little, step by step until the summer.