Writing again. Sort of. Playing games in my head.
Paris is as I remembered it. So nice to be somewhere where wine is inexpensive and brunettes with sad wet eyes are appreciated. “Sois belle. et sois triste.”
Anna Quin’s Berg is my new favorite book—I would love to loan it to friends, but my marginalia is shamefully intimate. Marisa Anderson is my current soundtrack, her new album and all the rest. Of course, I am pleased to have a story come out around the same time as a fresh Lana del Rey track.
My life and surroundings are fine, but I am not. Until further notice, I will continue wearing black with occasional shocks of red. Maybe I’ll cut my hair.