"I’m supposed to write, I say. I’m supposed to say something, Paris."

"I’m being quiet, or trying to be. I’ve been trying to separate anger, and frustration, from pain and I’m prepared to surrender. No more theories, however impractical my mind could be. No more worries, hopefully. What about nightmares and memories – how to deal with them gracefully? I said no more theories – sorry."

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"I feel like I’m fading, Paris. So much to do. I don’t want to do. And I miss you. A little. Too much. Too."

"It’s like that. But it’s not that. Is this the price? You pay. For not choosing. To walk. In a previous scenario. Where the weather was rough. The road was dark. But the distance was short. Potentially short. And you said yes. To a fast drive. That took you. To this transit. In the first place..."

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"Here – I’m here with you, Paris. A bit sleepy today and almost bailed out of writing the memoir after the 70s dance party at La Coupole last night, but no hangover – I drank cleanly: champagne only. I’ve been in you for a week already, this time. I had to fly to Edinburgh for work the other day – a last-minute assignment as usual, but I flew straight back to you the next day."

"Here, my life in London is fading..."

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"Pressure’s off, Paris. There has never been any. Pressure’s off. To be there with you fully or to be here in London mostly – I travel around a lot anyway. Pressure’s off because I can do whatever I want – always have been able to – anyway, not because I always have the resources before I make a decision, but because I am brave enough to take the risks, every single time, and I will only be brave enough when it feels right to me – yup: I’m an emotional being, intensely so..."

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"I’m okay, Paris. I feel a bit groggy, yes, from having slept about 3.5 hours every day for the last three days, because there aren’t enough hours in a day to get things done recently, or that’s how I’d like to put it anyway – ce n’est pas ma faute, tu vois? (I know how much you adore it when I speak French in my silly accent) but I’m okay: for the first time in a while, I’m okay about being away from you..."

"...I guess there isn’t really much to say about being okay, is there? Except the list of contrasting states to being okay – like..."

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"I have nothing to say to you. Nothing so personal, anyway. In case you can’t stomach it. In case I can’t stomach it..."

"...Do you even want to be with me knowing how unlight I can be, or am I only this heavy because I’m not there with you, fully? Either way, how can I even breathe regularly knowing that my lung and my heart belong to your bohemian air?"

(Read the full text on imaginedparis.com)