Fabric District

It was around that time in Paris, when the city through my eyes collapsed- all at once.

In the fabric district, street pedlars alone cull and call like wild men outside the holly cite. The market square strewn with cardboard and plastic. I can barely walk, let alone breathe.

I saw the other side of the city of lights-

and I was tired.

But from that came something, maybe kindness, maybe resolve


No- do not take this last love of mine from me.

I retraced my steps in the arts district, and I was almost run over by traffic (several times).

Paris France is a strange place,

where a spider bite once nearly hospitalized me.

But that was a long time ago now. The old graffiti I photographed when I was a kid is gone now, painted over I think. Different memories in the same place. All of them disquieted in the eyes of the Law.

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