My dad just called from Paris. He's there filming for a day and called to make me jealous.
"I can save you some money. I'll take notes for your research instead. Not like there's any other reason to go." I shrugged off his taunts and he sighed. No fun if I don't get wound up.
Apparently it's sunny and the woman in the background sounded like she was shouting about her cat.
Bring me back a fat notebook of grey rain, writers hideouts, sweeping skylines and a kiss of Autumn boatrides. I miss my French lecture hall. I realised that last year. I miss the freezing room that smelt of gas as I sat there so very lost with all those grammar points I never learnt squeezed in snug with the curly-haired crazy and the silly-named Russian. Friends for a year and lost when I restarted. So many films and coffees and cheating on tests. Societies full of foreigners and bands with fractured English.
I watched The Black Dahlia again. It makes more sense when people stop asking whatcha watching, who's that guy, why's he doing that? Still not great though but now I have the book to compare it to.
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