Dear Anne,

I must admit I got drunk last night. I hadn't meant to drink as much as I did. It was the atmosphere, and I was alone, dreadfully alone. I went out for a meal and got caught up with a group of partygoers. The people were so welcoming and jovial—and they were really quite drunk when I caught up with them. I just tagged along. Perhaps they didn't notice I crashed their party. We went from place to place. Before I knew it, I was smashed. I cannot recall coming home, but I woke up in my own bed this morning, wondering what happened.

I can barely think. The room rotates when I try to stand so I'm lounging in bed, trying to answer your email. I feel I want to reach out to you more than ever. I need you, Anne. Please come to Paris. You are my anchor in this mess I created of my life.

My head is throbbing like mad. I needed this night out. I'm becoming dormant. Work, work, work. That's all I do, day and night. I'm a frustrated artist. I want to create and put all my life into it.

I sold one painting and made the equivalent of fifty US dollars. It's not enough to prove myself. I want to go home but I can't admit failure. My father would lord it over me, lecture me on my foolishness. I can't stand the thought. He wants me to fail so he can force me to see sense, face reality. I won't walk in his footsteps.

Tell me what to do, Anne. You're intelligent. I trust you with all my heart and soul. Please, Anne.

I can't write anymore today. My head is killing me and I'm growing melancholy. My emotions are in a whirl; I can't handle it. I'm going to bury my head beneath the pillow until I can stand on my feet again. When I try to stand, I'm overcome with nausea. Forgive me, Anne.

I love you,

Corey

xxx