, , , , , , , , ,

The words fell like drops of ink on the wrinkled paper placed on the table. The left heel dug in deeper to the carpeted floor of the cafe corner where the usual habitues sat, ready to discuss what they had been feverishly working on the previous night. The left boot had a hole in the leather sole and sometimes the drizzling rain water would seep into it on the way to the cafe, but he did not care . The two francs saved, would buy life’s elixir in that small glass with the odd shaped foot, you know, the one used for absinth…the pen made a blotch on the paper and just for a second he could see that the days efforts would be hard to read for anyone else. Looking up he felt someone staring at him across the tables full of chattering customers in the noisy room sipping cafe au lait.  Who was this staring at him?

This was not written by Proust in the little notebooks illustrated above courtesy of the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, France. The above words were created by the writing pen of twicemodern hoping they take you back to the Remembrance of Things Past.