WEBVTT

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My liberated love. Bonjour, mon amour. I spent

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too much time at the gambling table and didn't

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dance with anyone at the 1930s ball organised

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by La Baronne de Paname at Salle Colonne last

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night. I felt that the spirit of my gangster

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papa might have been with me and my wing girl Katie,

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or maybe it was my stellar late mama, especially

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when we were winning the roulette in between

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enjoying our friends on stage and on the dance

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floor where mere mortals mingled. I'm not one

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of them, obviously; I'm a poet, and we poets

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think we'll live forever, even with the sadness

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of the world. Especially with the sadness of

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the world. Turning down offers for a dance was

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proven to be profitable for my current aching

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back and mixing champagne and aperol spritz, at

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same price per glass, was proven to be safe for

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my gambling and my head the morning after. In

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any case, my glamorous gold lurex gown is still

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intact and my white marabou stole is still white.

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And my heart? My heart is doing just fine, I

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think. My heart is still my heart, trying to

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dictate my thinking even when I'm thinking to

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get it aligned with my head. Or was it just my

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body in its strife to detach certain sensations

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from an expired desire? Having been absent from

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running for a few days doesn't help, though the

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innocent flirting, and the occasional less-so,

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which is rare, has kept me feeling rather fit

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even when I'm actually under the weather, just

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a little. My little heart, pretending to be big,

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who gets the hurt from my strong conviction,

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can handle it. But perhaps I lied when I said

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my heart didn't need soothing when I broke it

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with my rational decision -- to break up in December,

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for example. -- or at least I was confused. Now,

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after waves of pain, guilt and even anger, which

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surprised my heart a little, I know my rational

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conviction, my principles are what soothe my

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pain because they give meaning to it, and meaning

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is as important as life itself, if not more.

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My meaningful pain doesn't take away my capacity

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to love, Paris, and I'm loving you meaningfully,

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you handsome, quirky, elegant, old-fashioned

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and philosophical thing. I'm loving my host family,

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my coffee dates and bar hopping with my friends,

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my impromptu bouillon or Indonesian restaurant

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suppers, my artist friends' vernissages and my

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poetic walk, long or short. I'm loving the causes

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of my wild laughter as equally as my quiet moments

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in the crowd, sometimes in the middle of a conversation.

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I'm loving the Parisians' compliments as much

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as the times they leave me alone to read my books,

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sometimes in French, because I can read with

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my heart --I've learned to say 'tantôt' instead

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of 'parfois' from Guy de Maupassant recently. I'll

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let you debate the utilisation of it with your

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gorgeous intellectual neighbours while I meditate

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to minimise the number of lovers I need in one

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monthly cycle. You'll be surprised how well I

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meditate if you've experienced my cheeky smile.

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The river Seine is fuller than usual last time

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I checked, covering the parts where I used to

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picnic in the Quartier Latin, and the crackling

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Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 on the record player

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is drowning my non -existent plans for the rest

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of the day. I'm biting my coffee -washed red

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lip, thinking of you and feeling how close I

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feel to you right this moment, exactly because

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you liberate me. Paris, le 20 février 2026. Je

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t 'embrasse.
