I still remember it, like some grand masterpiece frozen in, I don't know, impressionism. Windy, frozen impressionism on a grand scale, only magnified by my solidarity. I was alone. Not just alone, locked out. Trapped in the night. Yes, that was it. Ok, I think I'm ready -->
But no matter. I love this city. She weeps with me the dry frozen tears that come from turning over one's life with no cash in hand because Paris is a woman, and as such she is cruel. She is friendly, she is dark. She's insanity, she is mystery. She is older and younger and the same age as me. She is wise, she's conniving. She is thriving. She is trust and passion, and lust and fashion. She is graceful mais féroce aussi. And a fire, I know, but I love her. Because a woman is a most beautiful creature, maybe the most, but I'll never understand her. I'm not sure that I'm meant to, or want to for that matter.
[I think I said it better the first time.]
