Conrad’s last night… Kayla read a “real short poem I wrote when I was 17″… Brett had fierce September hair, stood in the fireplace of classical guitars… Jen read from Candide, about a Paris all too recognisable… Yara was herself entirely… Joanna laughed with joys nothing here holds… Brenda was circled by Rimbaud’s albatross and Neil had an NDE (near death experience) out on the rooves above Paris, keyless, having clumb out through a skylight only to hear the latch lock shut behind him… I was addicted to words.
And Conrad? His parting words were by way of counsell: Swallow the moon. Dance till you drop. Watch out for steak knives in the metro.