Day 0167

Paper thin bedding wrapped in plastic, pillow-less, other travellers talking, snoring, making toilet trips, being woken by border control at 5am, stopping and starting, smells, lurching, unhabitual discomfort. Sharing a mixed compartment on the overnight train from Milan to Paris is more or less an ordeal, and yet there is still a certain magic on the new day, stepping off the train in the heart of a beautiful new city.

Worked in a cafe, paying extravagant sums for two drinks and fast internet. Got the keys to my microscopic apartment (featuring toilet in cupboard), and crashed out. Summoned energy at last to walk over to the Pompidou Centre and flit around their modern and contemporary collections. Similar to the Whitney and the MoMa in New York, though practically empty. Sense of the waning interest and relevance of art. Ever shorter half-life for artistic movements. Contemporary artists rehashing ideas that only had value when they were new.

Dreadfully tired, mechanical and meaningless self portrait.