Diablevert

Because there's no other good place to put this.

On a scrap of napkin from a cafe in the Sixteenth, four years old at this point,

....I sometimes wonder if it is not the ambition of every woman in Paris to become one of those grand old women, walking along with their head held high and their umbrella low, and the day's captured treasure rolling gently along behind them in a silver hand cart glistening with rain. They are magisterial --- it is their city, the rest of us live in it. It is the ghosts of their lovers who walk the streets, whose pale cold shoulders brush past us, invisible, and make us shiver with romance. Only they can see them now, those old woman...

Now I can throw out the napkin.