WEBVTT

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My dancing heart. Bonjour, Paris. Can I think

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while dancing? I think not. I think with my heart

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and my heart is dancing. You are me and I am

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with you. My heart is dancing and ideas start

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pouring in. Yes, even without the rain, English

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rain that seems so far in the distance now that

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I have laid my eyes on the Seine again this morning.

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They appear before me like images from a movie,

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like things that have happened for me, and they

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are as real as the tears that touch my smiling

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lips that I can taste it. Ah, to be free! Ah,

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to be uncompromisingly oneself! What a blissful

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curse it may seem to be, to walk one solitary

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miles and smile at ordinary girls flying by,

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for there is nothing ordinary about girls flying

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by while you're walking your solitary miles,

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let alone by the Seine. I smile when something

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makes me cry, for there is nothing ordinary about

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being touched by something, by anything at all.

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I don't want to seek anymore, Paris. I don't want

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to seek you or myself or where you and myself

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come from. I just want to be the true you, my

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true self, the truth. You'd say I'm losing my

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mind, Paris, talking this way, but my mind has

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to melt to flow with my heart, which has been

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melting every hard decision presented before

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my eyes, that my eyes become watery, for more

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images like in a movie come to me as my heart

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is dancing where life is flowing, that I think

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with my heart. Can I think while my heart is

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dancing? I think not. I spent almost a week with

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my pier neighbour in Chelsea on his charmingly rustic

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barge without central heating--we're working

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on it. But with hot water supply and endless

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passionate conversations over hot meals we cooked

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for each other. Last night, my friends Sandy

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and Julien in Nation welcomed me back into their

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warm family home with delicious soup--I had two

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helpings, one for my tummy, one for my soul.

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I ran two miles this morning and walked a little

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along the Seine, spying Notre Dame in the distance

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with giddiness in my body before picking up mini

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viennoiseries from local boulangerie. I am now

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back in bed, sitting here not feeling blue, spilling

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my heart to you. Paris, Paris, que je m'en fous.

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For ah, to feel loved. Ah, to feel abundant and

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free, to constantly be in the right place at

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the right time is the only way to be. It's the

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only way to see when one sees with one's heart,

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with one's dancing heart at that. The shadow

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of the balcony flowers on the white curtains

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have disappeared. The day is getting higher.

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And it is soon time to get ready and lunch with

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my Katie and break her heart a little when I

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tell her I have now made up my mind that I won't

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be going to Barcelona with her this week. But

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she'll understand. She and my dear friend Fabiola

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in the warmer part of the continent will understand.

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I have a momentum going with something I'm currently

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writing. And I am in the right place at the right

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time to keep it going. Their understanding shall

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mend their hearts and their love shall make their

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hearts dance like mine. I'm loving you, Paris.

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The words are flying, assembling themselves around

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me. The scenes are directing themselves for me.

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Things are happening for me. The feelings are

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beautifully flowing as my heart is dancing. To

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allow. Can my heart think while dancing? Does

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it need to? paris, le 8 février 2026. je t 'embrasse.