"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>twilight in paris

>when the train slowly moved away from vienna westbanhof, i bit my lip.

in the morning, paris rejuvenated me like milk on skin. the city is alive with so much fervour and passion, and my feet would not stop for a moment. i walked for 10 kilometres non-stop, pausing under la tour eiffel to flash a smile at some military men, to buy some wine grapes to munch on while strolling along the seine, to debate the importance of québècoise french to a shop owner on les champs elysée, and to snap random photos of my hands overlooking le notre dame, place de la concorde, st germain de pres, and even a pub called “the great canadian.”

yes i am.

paris is everything the songs, novels, paintings, films, and sculptures promise, but as i crossed le pont royal by quai henri IV, the sun blossomed into a starburst across the seine and i knew that something divinely unknowable was happening in this city, and only the parisian demi-gods know exactly what.

the sun beats down like sand dune, but the breeze compensates with a saturated crisp.

i have 5 days to fine an excuse to say, “we’ll always have paris.” and i can’t stop humming la valse d’amèlie.

my feet are now pointed in a new direction, and this keyboard can’t hold on tight enough.

pourquoi tous les québècois regardent Paris comme une Mecca culturelle?

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