In our mid-evening
circle of lamplight, where words are inscribed that may never see day, or a
solid imprint, or the moneyed theatres of writers festivals, my thought comes free
of any contract or false expectation. The stone enclosure of Chartres Cathedral
is where we’ve been, its myths sunlit aquamarine and ruby, its apostles
resolute with mercy. Paris isn’t the same, its august hotels and star-struck
traffic eager to reward vanity, to make a virtue of evil. But my mind stays
undistracted by capital debts, writing into the night favourite memories of
charity, using a railway station biro of aquamarine.
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