I wished Paris to be in autumn or winter perpetually. The dark and somber weather suited my black mood perfectly. The days were shorthened and the nights were lengthened. Winter made me daydreamed. Dreaming about possibilities and unfulfilled life. It also made me sleepy. I slept ravenously, craved for it as I freed my imagination from its usual restraints and thought of another life, other lives, yearning for those who were faraway, not wanting to wake. After a long night, which was always brief, I would stir awake with a sense of haplessness, even panic, as if the night had been impossibly short, too short to contain all the reflections I had reserved for those silent hours, in the hope of arriving at some resolution. It was not resolution of conflict. Simply some pointers to the way ahead although I did not have any difficult problems to solve. I was surprised to find the lights of offices to be switched on practically all day long. Every Parisien hurdled in solidarity. They were bundled in black and dark clothings hurrying home like cockroaches scurrying for their meaningless little lives. Every shop and every entertainment outlet were closed at 5pm. Everything was shut down except for those pathetic drinking holes were opened passed the curfewed hour. Oh my! This was so much fun...
