When you’re in love and you buy a new coat, you love your new coat. You love to wear it and take it off, you love setting it on the back of a chair with a hint of your lightness inside, a hint of you in a lighter state. You love its sleeves and its collar, the wildly old-fashioned scarf you loosely stuff in it, the way you close it halfway up your chest, the way it zips impeccably on you—and to know that it’s you, inside, who’s in love. You love the coat, with which you might not find love again, but still, perhaps you will. And on the street you’re ideally coated—just like as a small child when you wore your first coat, and its camel beige carried you through the colors of these times like a fable, a playground, a garden, Bois-Colombes, the ideal aperture of sky in the basin, a morning snowfall in a garden that existed only on this occasion. When you’re in love and you look at the sky, you love looking at the sky and you love the sky. Loving to look at the sky, loving the sky, you can’t tell, they become one. You can’t tell where the sky starts. You can’t tell where your love ends. You can tell only that you’re wearing your little coat.