As the wind sweeps the dusty streets night and day

So many different things happened. Events that

changed my life. It's difficult to zero in

on one, or on a single theme, and

attribute that which is happening now, to a

crossroad or set thereof in

particular.

Now, I sit in a dimly lit studio, in the

South of France, unemployed, recovering. I've

come down here to write, more than five years ago,

thinking the story had come to at least some kind of end.

For as they say, one cannot write about Paris in Paris.

Paris, somehow, has kept expanding.

Though maybe now. As the wind sweeps the dusty

streets night and day.

The first story that comes to mind is one that

has stayed with me, for it involved love.

No. We'll let that one slide.

I was a bad young man ... And you see, this is as

far as I can write. Paris

is outside again. Tomorrow I will get up again, have

coffee, and then I will walk out my studio door,

an iota more ready than I was this morning, turn

around, lock the door ... my sister got me the keychain

I use now ... And I will walk down the half-flight of

spiral stairs, past my bicycle, down another

flight-and-a-half and I'll open the door

to the African neighborhood street by the train

station I live on.

Maybe I'll want to tell you more then.