Write in the now, write in the now, in the now, now, now. I'm at a bar in Paris listening to live Creedance Clearwater Revival covers like I'm at fucking Finn McCool's on Main Street. Mais non, this is France. It's foreign music here; American music. I'm not down the street, I'm around the world right now. Right now, in the now, now. My hands feel free with no rings on them. I feel young again, or just younger maybe. Like with the rings, I've thrown the wear out of my face, my eyes, my mind. There's everything at my finger-tips again. This is a city of eternal youth I believe, if I know what sips to take, where the fountain is. In the Fourteenth.
Utopia.
Emma's friend is a music producer. He's young an ambitious and bearded like me. Emma rolls cigarettes on the table and we smoke in the bar. While the old boys wail away. They all look about fifty. An old French Samoan with a ponytail is singing lead and riffing in a Hawaiian shirt. He doesn't quite sound like Fogerty, but he's not far off; just a pinch of French. I smoke one of Mathieu's Camel cigarettes. It makes me think about Max and his Camel Blue's all those years ago when I was always bumming off him. Like yesterday.
After a beer, Emma takes me home.
