Paris, city of lights. Smoking too many cigarettes, not sleeping well—yet…eyes wide open, heart full. Anonymous faces pasted to book covers; convicted men, innocent students, places of my past turned into type and paint on worn pages. Words that mean something, words that mean nothing.

Albert Camus is my guiding light. Best of luck to me, trying to wind the year down quietly, peacefully. Julian Schnabel, the Enneagram, music notes scattered like proof—small handmade scenes so the devil doesn’t infest my mind. Stamps, and films, and folds, and ink.

Blue memories of 30 years ago. Keep going. Just keep going.