May 2023.

My daydreams are over. Here I am. Paris. For 61 days exactly.
Lulled by the whispers of the street, this haunting cadence that rises and falls silent, pace the silence, gives it an odd body. I closed the shutters looking at the Sacré Coeur and the illuminated windows piercing the dark roofs, the Prussian blue sky swept with the orange aura typical of the city’s illuminations, which blur the darkness with their cheerful hue. I am happy to be here. A little confused too. It’s familiar and unreal all at once. It’s my duty to make sense of it all, to dare to immerse myself in more than just by my fingertips.

Morning.

The long time of breakfast. I dawdled in my thoughts, then set off to join the Canal St Martin and my friends, making a long detour by the hill and rue des Martyrs, to make my stroll more pleasant.I returned by another route, just as long but just as pleasant, under a piercing sun after the storm. I discovered the light-hearted bustle of rue du Faubourg Montmartre, and the discreet elegance of place St George.
I took a photo of le Sacré Coeur, majestic in the late afternoon light. Something tells me it won’t be the last stolen shot of this fabulous view. I even had dinner facing my panorama, sitting on the scaffolding that temporarily disfigures the facade of my building. Then I took a late bath.

I’m taming.

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