Ah, Paris. As the winter (and my despair) deepens, I have retreated to the city of poetic ghosts to salve my gloom and ennui. These past 13 hours have even a whirlwind. I danced at the secret nightclub hidden in the Catacombs, sharing a bottle of Tattinger’s with Jim Morrison (still alive!) Then I won a Vespa race with Macron along the Siene, smoked meth on Oscar Wilde’s grave and broke into the Louvre after hours when, for one hour on the day after Christmas, the Mona Lisa gains sentience and reveals one revelation about the coming year (long story short: stockpile zinc). Unfortunately, the only picture I took is of this cup of coffee in the lobby of my hotel. But everything I just wrote totally happened.