I picked up a copy of Topic of Cancer at the Shakepeare & Company Bookstore when I was in Paris. I had read it prior, but now I am eating it up like a kid in a candy store. Other than that, all is still well. Dehydrated, tired and in need of a massage. But otherwise very well.

These days I am feeling hyperaware of the fact that there is no one to whom I can communicate even a fraction of my feelings. I went out the other night, got my hair all done. Every drink was bought for me. I told all my best stories and everyone loved me. I haven't ever felt so lonely. It was this little Irish pub in Saint Michael. And when I asked the man keeping me company and refilling my Jack Daniels if that was a wedding band on his finger, he shrugged and replied that it was different in France. I laughed before walking away and said, "No- no it's quite the same."

Everything is so damned lost in translation.