I had been putting off writing the letter to home since my first day here. Finding it far too daunting to sum up the intensity of my first few days in France, I resorted to ‘everything’s fine’s and ‘hope all is well’’s, like I knew I would. How could I possibly even attempt to explain the invisible transformation that I had undergone since my second night here? Since that night. The night that I realised that perhaps the world wasn’t as innocent as I would have had myself to believe. That my visions of corruption residing only in the face of meaningless madness were not necessarily accurate in the context of early morning Parisian streets. That you meddle with danger and you just may get hurt.
I first encountered Vivian on my second night of residency at Le bateau permeable. He was staying in 27a, the room next to mine. Vivian was an egg packer from the northern hemisphere, “packing 5000 per day. That’s almost equal to my iron curtain counterpart Slovak Sid…He packs a cool 6000 under duress of an ak47 but hey, thats a mighty volume, especially as he encounters egg flu on a daily basis