I feel like a Frenchman has moved into my bronchial passages- he is playing his squeezebox, kicking up his heels with some whores, and having a nip at the pipe in there. Well, thats what I get for being an American living abroad in these troubled times. That’s right, Frenchmen. Hanging out in the lungs.
So I awoke from a bad night’s sleep searching my bag desperately for a clementine I thought I had left in there. I didn’t find a clementine, but I found that the wonderful letter that I carry folded up with me, had gotten wet and the words all been washed away. I can still make out the impressions in the paper, and I know the words by heart, but it was a habit of mine to take it out and read it in a blue moment- like when trawling home drunk on the subway. Perhaps it is somehow fitting that I am now in possession of the world’s only Blank Love Letter.
But the human spirit will rebound! Though I choke on my own slime, I am hard at work. The show must go on!