There’s always a system of rules – inevitably starting with one. The further along one gets with the rules, the less important the premier ones get and the rest gets all jumbled up. “Well. It’s kinda freaky. But sweet.” Such is how life goes. A young man in a blue velvet coat raises his finger as if to make a point: “oooh yeaaaaahhhh!” The yellowing autumn sunlight of Provence romantically slashes through the Nice-bound TGV but it’s in my eyes so it’s making it a bothersome complication to type this paragraph. The train blows through a tunnel, bound for San Rafael and Calgary is the repeat soundtrack. The sudden darkness forces a memory rewind of bare feet sneaking down the stairs – a true professional at work, sleuthing through the night. It’s rather strange when one encounters a younger version of oneself past midnight. “Do they know you’re spending three hours drawing them?” There’s a tremendous splash in a very small stream but the ruined mill is quite stoic so it makes one pause as to whether it was all worth the effort. “Would you like room service, quarter to eight?” The flowers are quite resilient to the current and stubbornly refuse to float down the stream so there’s quite the duo effort with sticks, stones, and spit. Destitute Citizen of the World is a place in itself and lest we start guessing, a tangle of mysteries worth not writing. There’s a flying shadow in the night and the hot breath of a beast that will freeze any screaming. “I haven’t told anyone about what happened.” Burn it all! The omitted details of the brain will no doubt be recounted some day but only after some red wine and in all probability, in silence. What I said before holds true: there’s always a system of rules. And the further along one gets, the less you listen to the Rule 1. Bonne nuit.