What I love about Paris is what also keeps me turning and looking, threading my way through the tiny webs of streets connecting one star centre to another within this maze of “étoiles” d’arraignée. Everywhere a labyrinth of shops full of shiny costly things glistening in what is called the City of lights. I begin only now to venture into the courtyards which I did not know were there – Paris inside, Paris outside.

I have been anxious, seeing my own multitude of threads pulled and spun, cast out into my space like the busy spider I am clinging here with this word, there with that one. Unconsciously fearing that there are maybe not enough words to hold me up over this vast empty space around me. Worrying that nothing has made sense in my work. I am very busy making no sense. Making nonsense.

And then I saw it.

I am holding out an empty space into the light to watch what comes. I enjoy just looking at the empty page with no words, watching what is there: the shadows of dirt on the windows, of leaves shaken by the wind and of people moving. A Poetry without words, only the shadows of words. I stand still and the city penetrates, writing its shadows onto me.

It is the emptiness that speaks to me more than all the words I could throw over this gap between me and what? Me and the world? Me and You?

All of a sudden the end is near. Less than three weeks left in Paris. I imagined coming home with some sense of resolve, a victory in the narrative, but now I know that I only continue; there is no conclusion.