Not until I'm here do I ask the question. I look out the window towards the flats across the street, with their petite balconies and windows half-shuttered, half-curtained, with only a few panes open to the rain darkening the majestic stone walls outside, and for the first time my mind begs of me, "What the hell are we doing here, Brian? How did we get here?" Those months in Los Angeles seem so distant now, and the reality of my present situation floods the pores. Sinks deep, filling those tiny crevasses in the brain tissue. My mind's saturated through and through now. And for the first time in I-don't-know-how-long I am awake. The alertness, the quick dart of the eye is back. So what now? Did it take a trans-continent flight, a trans-Atlantic flight, delirious luggage-laddled trots over la Seine, Romanian binge drinking in the countryside, and a cup of espresso to achieve this? For my sake, I hope not. But only now do I see it. That which has brought me here, to this place. Currently. Maintenant. Presente. Dans l'apartment Paris ici. In the overcast, dripping-wet light of day, my eyes are open. No longer squinting by the sun towards that distant future, towards what may become of these tired bones. That future is now, but the energy, the life, it comes in spurts. Et mon espresso est fini. Buckle up, bitches. The answer, the resolution to all this is not close. But the labor is right before me, at my fingertips. It's going to be a bumpy fucking ride.
