One day, Les 400 Coups suddenly began to loop inside my head, as if overcome by a fierce desire to narrate my life. I sank my body down, plunged abruptly into the cosmos, like a swan blowing saxophone in silence. The projector shuddered through my week: I stood in the JazzItaliano Live venue, staring blankly at a spotlight with no one in it. In my stomach, 120,000 French characters faded out like a dissolve shot, drifting away from me. In a flash, they became Antoine’s body, coat on, turning to face me, watching me coldly with those caged eyes. I had nothing to say; I watched him coldly back. He stood at the river’s edge, the sound of flowing water washing over the violin melody. Was that a river or the sea? I couldn’t tell, but then he was in a corner of Paris, taking a friend’s hand and dancing with joy. As they danced, the street emptied until only road signs remained and three-hundred-year-old buildings beside them, the last taxi seeming to crash into a burning star. A trumpet call, dark as a shadow, rang out from somewhere between him and me, and I felt the sound quality of an overcast day was nothing but noise.