Maybe if all of this happened within the same language it would have fit better.

Maybe. Probably.

As it is now, I must speak about what is happening, but I can’t give you a story. Plot is a form of self-medication: look, rejoice, there’s a glimpse of sense. Fragments will come together to mean something. Let’s ignore all that conspires against the narrative.


But off we go, regardless. Paris. Grief. Always. Off we go.