Mon cher Pableau,

     I trust you are well. I am at a café in Arles. It is fourteen past twelve, the streets are empty, and the café is closed. The waiter has filled my glass before leaving to clean up. My journey is half through, and I am years from home. I have made friends along the way. And lost friends along the way. I have seen beautiful things. Faces, sights, scenery. I wonder at the value of traveling alone. A lone gentleman walks up a shadowed street. Watching him from the café, I sip my wine and go along. I return to the teacup and chair at his table, and the bed where he sleeps, ‘til I wake to the morning sounds at his window. I sit on the terrace and live the life of the waiter, wiping tables and stacking chairs, sweeping, mopping the floor, washing glasses, sorting silver. And then the waiter is gone and the man is gone. And there is only the sound of the buzz of the lights, and the silence of the stars. The silent stars, filling the canopy of the raven-colored night.

           L’un d’If qui t’embrasse très fort… Blurtseau