That little room. That little old stone room almost pushed through the side of that tiny garden courtyard that did so well to buffet you from noisy Paris. But you were lucky. Your little room with its little courtyard was only gained by a little street only useful to the automobile as way of delivery.

Those were great times. There always seemed to be a contentness in my bones. And there always seemed to be one beer and one cigarette which always felt so horrible to smoke. (I have quit smoking again - since December this time) But there was of course always good company. And always somewhere to go, but happily not for a few hours.

Or that wretchedly good time when I mistook early morning for dusk and you came outside to talk to me and then push me on my way because your mother was visiting. Your mother who your sister, somehow, was so jealous of. Yes'em good times. The most fiery hair I ever saw and somehow a laugh to match it. And hours and hours in bed resting on floated words, hopes and dreams, and blah bu blah blahs. They all make for good space no matter how small.

cg