And just like that a millipide walks across my bedroom floor.

Beatniks were the only good hipsters.

I'm up now and have been for hours, I went out yesterday with a friend for drinks in the sun and all that summer time malarkey, it was good, great even, but spending the day solidly drinking had tuckered me about a real treat and as soon as I got home, I immediately hit the big grey sack.

Up and refreshed now though and like I say, have been up for a while doing absolutely nothing actually. Barely even packed, barely even thought about any of this little trip, and every time I tried to devote a little bit of grey matter to the endeavour I felt a little sick and a little nervous...but I guess that's the nature of unaffordable, romantic excursions for one. The more you think about it, the closer you find yourself to heart palpitations and the Big Bad Breakdowns.

Probably best for everyone involved if I don't think about it until I get there.

I'm staying with a friend Cleo, who we met when we went to Paris last year, right before we climbed the Bercy fucking stadium. Hoo boy.
My plan is to hang out a little, walk around, bike around, take in the sights, maybe hit a night spot or two and definitely take as many pictures as I can, write as much as I can and get as soused as possible whenever possible.

I'll be another guy for a week, walk around with a cigerette in the corner of my mouth at all times, maybe improve my posture and breathe better too. Let my booze do the talking for me and forget about embarrased walks home at three o'clock in the morning, rat traps, rent payments and the world in general. For a week.

But that's a whole other story.