Woodstock Hostel, Rue Rodier.

Years have passed since I was last here.
Many years. So many years I feel obliged to account for them somehow, but I won’t. I feel like evaluating them in some way, but I can’t.

Despite the frosty bartender, who is not a bartender at all, (because, as he vehemently repeats, this is not a bar) I neither feel, nor I suspect look, remotely out of place here. This means that 14 years ago, I probably did.

Its not really possible to concentrate on writing, thanks to the international Anglophones’ drunken yaddering. Even if I could concentrate, I’d be wasting my time writing about this.

Why am I here, reminiscent? And what has been obscured by that dissected VW all this time?

My Kronenbourg is 95.8% finished and I’m about to walk home at 0.000024 km/h