And I write fondly about Paris and those little Cathedrals.
The sound of the slow dripping water, essential for dissolving the sugar, bounces in my ardent mind, an acute, hard hurting sound from within the zone, the swaying of the ocean and the trickle of the latrine.
The waitress, with a keen eye for an empty glass, ever so helpful, keeping me topped up, keeping me hydrated, telling me stories, and taking my cash.
And then my eyes are becoming.
The swallows move and glide in droves, outside the passage brothel, through the alleyway, to their mud nests. I watch her floral skirt, how she lingers in the slip of a sunset evening, low altitude migrations.
in Montmartre, Paris, smoking French cigarettes, at the Moulin Rouge.
