You drank coffee, very late at night and smoked cigarettes. You made thick plumes, long ones, too, with the bluish tint of your madness and hunger and your want, want, want for something, anything to happen: for trains to barrel transmolecularly through your walls, for blue cups to spin you right out of your bed into Cafe de Flore on boulevard St Germain with a croissant and more coffee in small white cups and people streaming by- Parisiennes bound up in scarves and boots: Vivienne Westwood, de Meulemeester, Balmain, Louboutin,  Balenciaga,-carrying hot baguettes and cold bottles of wine.

You drank more coffee and smoked more cigarettes and thought how they looked on Julianne Moore's Charley on A Single Man, lavender Sobranies, the better to show off her privileged life, her isolation, her yellow earrings, her glass of Tanqueray. Or on Margot Tenenbaum, her cigarettes a stylish prop to her rich girl moodiness. And you thought, how indulgent, to smoke and to feel unapologetically and utterly depressed in your long fur coat.

You want, want, want. To love. To make your life matter. To cut a swath of you in the fabric of the world. But all you can do is wrap yourself with more blankets. Burrow deeper into your cocoon where nobody can see your threadbare cable-knit leggings and your newly painted red toes and where nothing matters except more warmth, more snugness.