[ Professionally or privately says that little shit, like it isn't perfectly obvious that he could have meant nothing but everyone, everywhere, at every possible moment in time. Vincent stares up at the ceiling, waiting for the God he doesn't believe in to show his arse to him now that apparently, the whole world and life in general is all about that but as it were, nothing happens except his eyes start to water slightly.

Shit. ]

So everybody and their fucking horse. Thanks for your discretion, darling.

[ And thank you, Jean Louis, for being this randomly incompetent. It's honestly a new low. ]

Wise of Ardisson, though, props to her. Make space in your calendar between February 2nd and 5th. I'm gonna need you for a shoot.