What a light. What a night, Paris. Took Katie
safely home at 4 a .m. from the monthly 1920s
dance night at La Coupole, and with that, the
reprise is complete. This time is even better,
thanks to less resistance from my ever-evolving
mind and, most importantly, the drunk green curry
on the sofa, judged by a cat. The reprise is
done, and I am still in love with you, Paris,
against some people's advice, people who have
lived in Paris, mostly the sober ones. But I'm
not known as one who listens to advice, though
I'm sober most of the time. Like before, a lot
of my friends, old and new, were there to exchange
well-deserved compliments, love. dance pose
and smoke outside in the cold with. And when
they were not with me, in my traversing moments
round the ball, I could watch them, peacefully,
from a distance, with motherly and childly joy
at once. And when they were not with me, in my
solitary moments, I could tend to my solitary
heart, my large, solitary heart, very tenderly
before one of them would find me and tell me
everyone was looking for me again. I would tell
them I'm thinking or to tell everyone I'm in
the men's toilet or give in and rejoin when I
wanted to. It felt as light as my first, though
this time I was drinking since the afternoon
albeit clean drinking, like a civilized over
40, champagne only. I felt as free. What a night,
Paris. And what an air to take into my creative
lungs. My recent wet days in London have been
redeemed by your fresh post-snow atmosphere
filled with dreams old and recent. My post
-run walks along the Thames by Battersea Park,
facing the famous Albert Bridge in London, have
been washed by delicate tears as I surrender
to the beauty of everything I see. And now, it
is time to cash in on those cathartic little
drops and be the beauty I keep wanting to see.
To be the life of the party, because I am life
itself. I am life, and I am love. All right,
maybe the champagne wasn't all that clean, and
I'm actually still delicate. I could blame it
on the edible glitter mixed in the coupe at Katie's
birthday pre-party party in the late afternoon,
or on the extra compliments spiked into my flutes
by the adorable Japanese-Italian bartender as
an appreciation for the tip. All the same, I
feel such... tenderness toward everything and
everyone these days. Yes, even you. Especially
you. I feel that I understand them and I want
them to feel seen so that in turn they can see
themselves. All that good and all the goods.
I feel that I understand you and I want you to
feel seen. so that in turn you can see yourself,
all that good and all the goods. More friends
have offered their place for me to stay, either
for myself or to share with them, just as I have
stopped wondering about where I'll be staying.
I have stopped wondering about where I'll be
staying as I've figured out where I'll end up
with myself, who is now focused on more yeses
than noes, who sees more wonders than mediocre
creatures in my surroundings, who breathes in
deeply, every step I take,the air of expansion
I craved since I was trapped in my little body.
Little girl. My little Dina. I'm setting you
free. You can walk. You can run. You can sit
down and write your heart out. You can tell everyone
you love them all and that love is all you are
and all that you can give. You can see whatever
you want to see and you can feel whatever you
want to feel. No more punishments from your parents,
from their gods and from their neighbour's pain.
No more crying in the dark on your own, for you
can always come with me wherever I go, and I'll
tend to you so very tenderly, like the most precious
thing, like no one has ever done. I'm holding
you right here in Paris. where your little self
was told you just randomly dreamed of living.
I'm holding you like this light is holding me.
Oh, what a night it was, Paris. What a light!
Paris. Le 11 janvier 2026.