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I'm sleepless in Paris.

The refrigerator's cry of help, the typewriter rhythm of rain drops on the scales of zinc snaking up and over the roof, the clearing of lightly feathered throats, shy murmurs first, sharp chirps soon to follow, the sudden burst of wings flapping, the gentle snore across the room, the continuous hum of a chimney vent, the masturbatory coo of a lone pigeon, the termites in my stomach, the sound of a heavy car door closing.

A morning is being stitched together and - a celestial drone of an airplane - I feel like I'm the only girl in the world.

I wonder if just below me or across the river, someone else is feeling the exact same way and I wonder if that would be enough. I cannot imagine a one, a singular, a solo, being enough and I don't know how I ever could be in this time of abundance, consumption and careless disposal.

It is a matter of years. I envy those now in their early thirties. Their youth was slower and less confused. I don't even have the patience to listen to an older person speak: too many words over too long a stretch of time. I, who refuse to LOL BTW, have developed a hearing that runs out of battery after a couple of words. Full stop, and I recharge again, but I can only keep running for so long. When you hear too many becau--, bu--, wha--, you know you are interrupting too often and not listening enough. Has that ability been untrained out of me? Or have I just become disinterested beyond repair?

I don't even have the patience for mornings' stretches and yawns.

Power - password - play.

A contemporary veni, vidi, vici.

- The sound of garbage trucks -