17 years in Paris.

Nearly half my life and I don't know why.

At home, age 42.

I am writing because I am abiding by the once-a-week publishing commitment I made to myself at least four months ago. This week I struggle to find the words, next week I’m taking a much deserved break (not from writing, just from my current situation) — bear with me.

When the sun finally reveals itself in Paris, the trees do not bud slowly