Reality masters many faces
Which mask do you wear ??

I've changed my face over the years,
and my muse right along with it.
I first found inspiration
in myself, writing words
upon my skin.
But the pen was silver and cold
and the words were red and ugly.
Sadness, a pensive depression,
that was my next muse.
And I wrote,
oh, how I wrote,
works which bled me out
but never did much to help
soothe the ache anyway.
Then for a time I lost myself,
and had no muse to call my own.
And I squandered far too much
precious time stagnating.
Until,
until,
the most unexpected muse arrived
with a sweeping push,
forcing me up.
And now I'm wandering,
though I'm no longer lose,
and with me I have the muse
I never knew I wanted.
You.

A phone call, Bilbao:
"yes, ok. Ok. Ok, yes."
Arms are waving

12 hours, a room in Paris:
a pencil case is being dropped on the floor, people are thinking in french

A police station with green walls:
a girl is stretching cling film over her face and falls off her chair

Somewhere else in France, I usually picture a farmhouse in the countryside:
running around in circles, reading from a piece of paper and trying to be heard over ‘Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux’

On a tube, London:
*Takes off her bag, shoes, jacket, hat, jewellery, make-up. Lets down her hair