Here we are back again in Paris, staying at Les Récollets, where I first got wondrously stabbed in the soul, never to truly return to my former life or self.
Nearly seven years ago I arrived here with a magical arts grant, a ticket to two years of creative training and a chest full of wild tearing joyful agony. It still smells the same - the feeling and Les Récollets. Memories peep from every corner.
I have a thousand stories to tell.
But for now I'll keep them until I get to place of safe internetting... here, just like all those years ago, the internet is heartbreakingly slow and nasty, stealing my ideas and patience. I will find a safe place and write properly tomorrow.