Oh Paris, who wouldn’t want to move in with you? Smitten with a romanticized ideal, yes perhaps, but doesn’t the feeling make it true, or at least true enough? I am here as an artist, gladly, but first and foremost to get to know you better. One’s gotta live and love before pursuing any art or trade. But if you choose to be my muse for matters of life and art, and if you take me somewhere you haven’t taken your past lovers, I promise to tell all your secrets for I know you don’t want to keep them.




 

 

Paris. You're a book. How do I put you in a paragraph? I won't.

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Rue Poissonnière is certainly not a bad place to your feelings gallop, especially if you’re walking south.

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These tasty awnings look like marzipan bibs for the houses. There are like ten ugly buildings in Paris and one or two of them aren't even that ugly. I know it's all stolen gold, and my conscience is trying to shame me out of liking it but try denying the heart what the eyes have already spoiled it with. This city‘s beauty would be quite appalling if it wasn’t for the right amount of dirt and all the dog turds beaconing the route back down to earth.

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