My dancing heart. Bonjour Paris. Can I think
while dancing? I think not. I think with my heart
and my heart is dancing. You are me and I am
with you. My heart is dancing and ideas start
pouring in. Yes, even without the rain, the English
rain that seems so far in the distance now that
I have laid my eyes on the Seine again this morning.
They appear before me like images from a movie,
like things that have happened for me, and they
are as real as the tears that touch my smiling
lips that I can taste it. Ah, to be free! Ah,
to be uncompromisingly oneself! What a blissful curse
it may seem to be! To walk one's solitary miles
and smile at ordinary gulls flying by, for there
is nothing ordinary about gulls flying by while
you're walking your solitary miles, let alone
by the Seine. I smile when something makes me
cry, for there is nothing ordinary about being
touched, by something, by anything at all. I don't
want to seek anymore, Paris. I don't want to seek
you, or myself, or where you and myself come from.
I just want to be -- the true you, my true self,
the truth. You'd say I'm losing my mind, Paris,
talking this way. But my mind has to melt to
flow with my heart, which has been melting every
hard decision presented before my eyes, that
my eyes become watery, for more images like in
a movie come to me as my heart is dancing where
life is flowing. That I think with my heart,
can I think while my heart is dancing? I think
not. I spent almost a week with my pier neighbour
in Chelsea on his charmingly rustic barge without
central heating -- we're working on it -- but with
hot water supply and endless passionate conversations
over hot meals we cooked for each other. Last
night, my friends Sandy and Julien in Nation welcomed
me back into their warm family home with delicious
soup -- I had two helpings: one for my tummy, one
for my soul. I ran two miles this morning and
walked a little along the Seine, spying Notre
-Dame in the distance with giddiness in my body
before picking up mini -viennoiseries from the local
boulangerie. I am now back in bed, sitting here
not feeling blue, spilling my heart to you: Paris,
Paris, que je m 'en fous! For ah to feel loved!
Ah, to feel abundant and free! To constantly
be in the right place at the right time is the
only way to be. It's the only way to see when
one sees with one's heart, with one's dancing
heart at that. The shadow of the balcony flowers
on the white curtains have disappeared. The day
is getting higher. And it is soon time to get
ready and lunch with my Katie and break her heart
a little when I tell her I have now made up my
mind that I won't be going to Barcelona with
her this week. But she'll understand. She and
my dear friend Fabiola in the warmer part of
the continent will understand. I have a momentum
going with something I'm currently writing, and
I am in the right place at the right time to
keep it going. Their understanding shall mend
their hearts, and their love shall make their
hearts dance, like mine. I'm loving you, Paris.
The words are flying, assembling themselves around
me. The scenes are directing themselves for me.
Things are happening for me. The feelings are beautifully
flowing as my heart is dancing. Ah, to receive!
Ah, to allow! Can my heart think while dancing?
Does it need to? Paris, le 8 février 2026.
Je t 'embrasse !