Tonight I listened to poets, writers and musicians wear their heart on their sleeve at a divey bar in Paris’s Chinatown.
A british girl told a story about the world ending. I cried.
An american sang like Adel and my heart became enraptured.
Today an Australian made me a fucking amazing cappuccino while singing Sugar ray.
Last night a french man tried to get me to go to bed with him after I photographed him smoking a cigarette.
Next weekend I rendezvous with a spanish guy in Lisbon.
Today I photographed pink and gold on rain streaked cobblestone. A woman with an umbrella. A man stopped and smiled waiting for me to take his portrait.
I finally found the metro station. Line 8. I was soaked. It was rush hour. It was a can of sardines.
Juedi.
