Hotel de Beauvais

 I can't think.  I can barely keep my eyes open.

Where did all the hope and energy go?  Into the Seine I suppose.

 Last night I sat at a cafe and wrote for hours (I also drank a bottle of Côtes du Rhône).  The wonderful thing about Paris is that no one bothered me.  I wrote twenty pages of my novel.

Today I cannot find the pages.  I am sure that I left them at the cafe.  Maybe I was drunk.  Maybe I was distracted by the two women at the next table.

I am drinking coffee after coffee trying to re-create the words I wrote.  I fear that they are gone like the ladies that inspired me.

 There is a woman across the hall that smokes too much and has an annoying dog.  I say hello to her in the morning when I go to get my coffee and newspaper.

I believe that her name is Edith.  I am secretly in love with her.

I wake up every night around 2AM.  I feel that I am missing something.