Paris — Here visiting Kelly. I’m at her apartment; she is still at work. It was a long day of traveling, but I’m starting to feel better. We’re going out to dinner and leaving tomorrow for Burgundy.
I feel unfrozen right now — and I’m not sure what that means. American music coming from the windows below and everything seems more lovely from here.
When do I begin to write for real? Am I not? The failure associated with what I’m doing — the life I’ve chosen to live. Bishop wrote here and Stein and, of course, Camus. They say this city is magic.
The wishful thinking had become just thoughts, her mind like a message in a bottle. She had it all, but