Awoke by seemingly never satisfied hunger.
Roamed the quaint, quiet bustling capital of France. Trains of unknown faces. With a glass of a dazzling ruby red, facing an ancient square, endured the cold whispering wind and lavishing in memories of the past.
Thus, back to the world of books.
Sounds of wheels grating over the cobblestone streets. A dull ray stubbornly got past the sunscreen. A reminder of a new day.
The accordion echoing in the winding tunnels of white tiled walls, plastered everywhere with old faded news and defaced movie posters. Trains full of ghosts and a couple of slumbering people. Quiet and unnerving.
A traditional cafe filled mosaic tiles and a neon lighted bar. People going about their own business. Simple breakfast with a beautiful coffee. Splendid.
The tourists-packed streets of Montmartre on a Sunday. Young and old, looking for gems of any kind. Had a chance meeting with Salvador Dali. Stepped into the Sacré-Cœur, tranquil and yet filled with fervent prayers. On the nearby steps, a crowd was heard applauding. As I passed, time seems to stop. The last song of the day was so familiar yet so distant.
Le surrealism, c'est moi.
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