She remained quiet as Michel worked through the tangle, angling her head compliantly. "Good, because I'm sick of reality myself," she admitted after he seemed to be finished, although it wasn't exactly a new inclination for Mabelle to seek solace in some form of escapism. Perhaps it was indulgent and childish, but as wrapped up in his music as Michel was, on some level he was doing the same. It wasn't that much of a stretch to imagine the man was quite dissatisfied with the world around him, but that really wasn't unusual these days. There really wasn't much about the current state of France that was enjoyable anymore. "The art can be quite unusual," she noted, curious what he had seen, "but intriguing. The Egyptians weren't nearly as concerned with realism or spatial logic." A pause, and then she smiled softly to herself. "Reminds me of you," she teased.
It would be nice to have something to keep her busy, something that Michel couldn't disagree with or forbid her from doing and might actually appreciate, although it wasn't a project she was willing to take on immediately. Trying to write half-asleep, she imagined would make less sense than usual. "And paper? I can write small."