She'd never been to Paris, but she'd seen in it books. She'd never been a boy, but she knew she was one. Blur, blur, blur, and the trailer flickered in and out around her. It was like a bad station on one of the old televisions of her youth, the ones in houses that had lived long, long before. Flicker, flicker, flicker, and she didn't really like the cigarette she was smoking. The wall at her back was scratchy, and then it was a table, and then it was her soft bed again.
She curled, seeking warmth and she listened as someone talked in her head, but she didn't hear words. She heard feelings. Hope, disillusionment, anger, all of them there. But they weren't really new, and she'd only learned to blink them all away. There was never use for any of her emotions, and he liked it a lot when she cried. But then the bed was an office, and there were books. She tried to read their spines, but they didn't have words, not really, and there was a box being opened, and who was-?
Music! It was beautiful, and she listened, and she remembered and she captured it in her mind. She wanted to remember, and then it changed again. A woman in white silk, and the dress was pretty, and she liked the rain.
Hiss, ow, no! The pain in her arm, the needle, was familiar somehow, and the room and the chaise and... oh. Oh, okay.
Her last thought as the bed became solid again, safe again, home again, was that she'd be able to find out the name of the song. She smiled.