Columbus, Perfect Days, Paterson, Lost in Translation, After Yang, and Her are films I’ve watched—some more than once—and today they resonate with me more than ever. They quietly affirm a way of living that feels true. I wouldn’t say they’re directly connected, yet they share something rare: small, singular moments that feel both ordinary and deeply beautiful.

I find it difficult to build a life outside of that sensibility. The external world doesn’t always make it easy to sustain this kind of awareness throughout an entire day. But what feels possible is to recover fragments of it—brief, almost invisible moments where something opens up. Maybe that’s where love lives: not as a grand narrative, but as a presence that appears in passing. That thread—subtle, essential—is something I want to bring more and more into my music.

The idea of performing live has become increasingly complex for me. Even though I still have a job on the side—one I intend to leave—the world has shifted since COVID, and I feel it. So I’m choosing to return to something simpler, more grounded, more honest.

My last trip, to be completely frank, didn’t bring me much. Maybe I missed something. I was thinking about going back to Vietnam from late June to mid-July, but given the current situation, it requires a significant budget adjustment. I’m not sure yet if I’ll go through with it.

I had planned a double album inspired by the Tibetan Book of the Dead and the Egyptian Book of the Dead. But I sense that it might lead me back into a kind of system or structure I’ve already explored. I don’t want to repeat that. Horsemen will likely remain the most representative of that phase. I’m still very attached to Fragments, which feels like the true album I released this year. I enjoy putting out a single or two, but I’m drawn to smaller formats—five, six, seven tracks—more focused, more distilled.

There’s still work to do when it comes to performing these pieces in front of an audience. In the studio, things are clearer: voice and guitar on one side, modular system on the other, guided by written structures. But I haven’t taken that fully into action yet. Right now, my main challenge is getting out of a kind of withdrawal—moving from thinking to doing. I feel that keeping a job alongside all this hasn’t helped. It’s a tension many of us carry when we don’t start with financial ease.

I’ve managed to hold on by staying close to something essential: a living space that feels right, where I can absorb different kinds of energy, where it’s quiet enough to rest. These films matter to me for that reason. So does the music I listen to—Hiroshi Yoshimura at home, Popol Vuh, The Light. I’m even considering letting go of most of my CDs.

I recently ordered a small cassette player from a shop in London and received George Harrison’s double album. Unfortunately, the second cassette doesn’t play well. It’s a reminder that buying online can still come with surprises. Still, I’m using these next couple of weeks to focus on what comes next in my life.

I’ve kept a certain attachment to older forms—maybe “vintage” is the word. I can say that now. I read a lot, around forty books, and I have a fulfilling social life, without excess. What has become more difficult, almost unthinkable at times, is the lack of a shared human perspective. Still, I don’t lose faith in that.

Since COVID, there’s been a deep fatigue. A sense that something essential is harder to reach. I turn more and more to nature. I walk a lot. This morning, near Île Saint-Louis, the light was remarkable. I tend to avoid crowds now—places that feel meaningful are often saturated with noise.

So this post is, above all, a quiet tribute—to those films, and to what they continue to awaken.

Zi