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le petit café d'insomnie

Every time I FB chat with my friend Paul I feel the need to set up that all night cafe, that haven for insomniacs and night owls, where they can gather to quietly to sprawl across sofas and armchairs, sipping of tea and coffee, nibbling biscuits and cake, reading books or murmuring to each other as the rest of the city slumbers in the midnight darkness. I think of that mythical place, of Le Petit Cafe d'Insomnie, of those people who may finally find a place of respite and recuperation. I dream of coffee and hot chocolate and exotic teas, of cakes from here and there and everywhere. I long for piles of poetry books, picture books and fiction, of walls of -ologies, of biographies and tall tales, of myths and photographs and stories spun in dreams.

I hear quiet conversations, the flick of pages turning, clinks and chinks of coffee cups. A piano playing softly, 78s and 45s spinning songs to weave amongst the silence and the slow wheelings of drawn out voices made thoughtful in the early hour. I hear chuckles and giggles and meanderings and musings, the recital of homespun words to inner rhythms and night-fuelled themes.

Le Petit Café d'Insomnie... 

amanda reposed- (c) A-M Williams


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