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What a night, Paris!

Took Katie safely home at four am from the monthly 1920s dance night at La Coupole and with that, the reprise is complete. This time is even better, thanks to less resistance from my ever-evolving mind and, most importantly, the drunk green curry on the sofa, judged by a cat.

The reprise is done and I am still in love with you, Paris, against some people’s advice—people who have lived in Paris—mostly the sober ones, but I’m not known as one who listens to advice, though I’m sober most of the time.

Like before, a lot of my friends, old and new were there to exchange well-deserved compliments, laugh, dance, pose and smoke outside in the cold with. And when they were not with me, in my traversing moments around the ball, I could watch them, peacefully, from a distance, with motherly and childly joy at once. And when they were not with me, in my solitary moments, I could tend to my solitary heart—my large, solitary heart—very tenderly, before one of them would find me and tell me everyone was looking for me again. I would tell them “I’m thinking” or to tell everyone “I’m in men’s toilet” or give in and rejoin, when I wanted to.

It felt as light as my first, though this time I was drinking, since the afternoon, albeit clean drinking, like a civilised over 40: champagne only. I felt as free!

What a night, Paris! And what an air to take in to my creative lungs! My recent wet days in London have been redeemed by your fresh, post-snow atmosphere filled with dreams old and recent. My post-run walks along the Thames by Battersea Park, facing the famous Albert Bridge, in London have been washed by delicate tears as I surrendered to the beauty of everything I see, and now it is time to cash in on those cathartic little drops and be the beauty I keep wanting to see, to be the life of the party because I am life itself.

I am life and I am love—alright, maybe the champagne wasn’t all that clean and I’m actually still delicate, I could blame it on the edible glitter mixed in the coup at Katie’s birthday pre-party party in the late afternoon, or on the extra compliments spiked into my flutes by the adorable Japanese-Italian bartender as an appreciation for the tip. All the same, I feel such tenderness toward everything and everyone these days—yes, even you—especially you! I feel that I understand them and I want them to feel seen so that in turn they can see themselves, all that good and all the goods. I feel that I understand you and I want you to feel seen so that in turn you can see yourself, all that good and all the goods.

More friends have offered their place for me to stay, either for myself or to share with them, just as I have stopped wondering about where I’ll be staying. I have stopped wondering about where I’ll be staying as I’ve figured out where I’ll end up: with myself, who is now focused on more yeses than noes, who sees more wonders than mediocrities in my surroundings, who breathes in deeply every step I take the air of expansion I craved since I was trapped in my little body.

Little girl, my little Dina, I’m setting you free! You can walk, you can run, you can sit down and write your heart out. You can tell everyone you love them all and that love is all you are and all that you can give. You can see whatever you want to see and you can feel whatever you want to feel. No more punishments—from your parents, from their gods and from their neighbour’s pain. No more crying in the dark on your own for you can always come with me wherever I go and I’ll tend to you, so very tenderly, like the most precious thing, like no one has ever done. I’m holding you, right here in Paris, where your little self was told you just randomly dreamed of living. I’m holding you, like this light is holding me.

O what a night it was, Paris! What a light!

paris, le 11 janvier 2026

je t’embrasse ! je t’embrasse !

d.o.