Paris was famously called “A Moveable Feast” by the world’s greatest openly closeted literary hero. People still refer to Paris this way and it’s all I can do to keep from choking on the ensuing violent upsurge of bile. The cutlery is still here, but the feast has moved on. Any scraps left behind have been scavenged. The plates have been licked clean and smashed. Someone ate the broken plates. No stains remain on the table cloth or the rug. They have been leached right out, and with them patches of cloth or fibre, leaving numerous bald areas which following the many years of ponderous treading have filled with a lumpy grime.
You can think of me as one of the grimy lumps.
I’m Otto Potter and I am an American living in Paris. There’s no excuse for it, but plenty of precedent.
