The baby cries again, she finds no rest. Perhaps there are nightmares. I stare all night at a blank page, it seems scarcely different. The sheets are clean, but the kitchen sink is a mess, and I fill my calendar to the brink, it is relaxing.
Yesterday, in the dark movie theater, an overwhelming longing for Parisian streets in springtime. Today, the opportunity presents itself like a pearl in the folds. I scramble to find unseen coins at the edges of my pocket book, my heart fluttering at the thought of cheap wine and the steps of the Sacre Coeur in the sunset. Paris, my beautiful city of dirty stone and winding song, how many years it has been. The new year whispers in my ear, entices me to leap as in years past, to say yes to adventure because to travel is to live, and I am tired of only ever dying.
Tomorrow you must rise early, and work, and the day after, until you are wrung out and have nothing left to offer. Then, then there will be travel, and excitement, and you will remember again what it is to be alive. February lies writhing in the margins. In February your eyes will glitter again.
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