Paris I.

142. One of the stranger notes that I have ever written. "I, Gazpacho the Soup, hereby give authorization for the hotel C., at X Rue Y, to charge 200 euros to the credit card of Mr. So-and-So."

Of course, in reality I did not refer to myself as Gazpacho the Soup, but that does not reduce the absurdity of me giving permission for the hotel to charge a credit card belonging to someone else.

143. Temporary home.

144. Twenty-five years, by Adam Zagajewski. To his sister, Ewa.

Your dream pulsed in the depths of time, 
a calm, light breath: so travelers sleep
when overtaken by a brief storm at a station
in Tuscany, in a town with dust and wasps. 

You'd be twenty-five now, 
listening to those songs that I can't stand, 
maybe nursing a newly broken heart, 
and I'd be busy making fun of you.

Your calm dream pulses in time's depths; 
children forgotten by their nurse sleep on like this, 
and never waken, and don't leave
the underwater rooms where dolphins weep.