...and Dreams.

back.

home.

it's cold and i'm envolved by Darkness. it's the right set up for Dreams.

Dreams, it's part 2. part 2, it's paris. paris, it's hell. and hell, that's where my Dreams are put down, like a wild dog. but somehow they manage to reborn, and so does part 2, paris, hell, the wheel is moving and i can't make it stop. in this vortex, my Dreams already dead, i'm just a journalist, reporting, from hell. i've become what writers become, which is, life, it doesn't really happen until it's all written down, plain and to the point, and whatever it's thrown at me, i sit, munch, stamp on paper, shrug it off. it's the writer condition. in words it shall live on.

look at us. a month and a half and so grown already. so whole. we're doing a good job.

the day ends now.

curtaincall.

happy valentine, m'sieur.