Lately we’ve been spending most of our time discovering the area closest to us, where we live. Morning walks to Père-Lachaise, saying hello to Marcel and Edith. Admiring thick heavy doors leading into death, spotting stray cats asleep between the tombs. Then we stroll up and down the hills of Belleville, becoming tired, quite dizzy by all the places one wants to remember. Small thrift stores with shelves full of dreams, boxes with buttons meant for tailored coats. In a diary somewhere, I hide my thoughts.