Ok, I really need to stop reading Ernest Hemingway. All I want to do is wander down cobblestone streets, sip port and too-strong coffee, watch and record the world go by in a notebook. Then later, I can climb a rickety staircase up and around to the top floor and take my notes and my free writing and thoughts and turn them into stories and essays, plunked out on an old typewriter.
So here's to dreaming about it until I can make it a reality.
Au revoir!
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