Mucus Cough With Blood Taste

" Paris is the city of love "

Because of some administrative problems, I'm obliged to spend a week in Paris to get my student visa before going to Japan . A week in Paris, a week in an airlock between two lives. And yet ...

Currently, he is neither hot nor cold but the sun is cold. The streets are lit up slightly but still clearly visible. I never noticed that Paris was so beautiful. It's like a giant museum, large statues, buildings, crushing prestige, accumulation of worship places, a huge river, over which human beings come in and out constantly subway entrances. Paris is a engloutisseuse she eats and eats and lives, imprisons souls and the bewitching way. An illusionist. The city of love.

One day a girl with huge boobs told me that Paris was a romantic city, a city for romance. Why not? It is true that there are many beautiful people in Paris (as everywhere you tell me). A sort of fairy tale perpetual, which defines the codes of fashion and love. Romantic city: one would almost want to walk a horse and sing serenades balconies. But I remain skeptical, with the little phrase of Flaubert well head "It remains under the balcony after the transition from a romantic, it's horse manure."
But Paris is the city of love, because love will come to embrace.
Under the feeble rays of the sun, a young couple, handsome and dashing, kiss to lose lean due to the barrier separating them from the Seine, which flows without thinking. Passing through the gardens, there are "s'bécottent lovers on park benches, hand in hand with stars in their eyes. They pass love along the Seine. Sitting in the grass, they take pictures, as immortalized, if not their love flying, and to prove that their kissing sense.

At this moment a small flame appeared in my hand. I was not scared, I looked into his eyes and I continued my walk.
And the flame grew gradually as I strolled through Paris. Neighborhoods of Les Halles and Hôtel de Ville, Notre Dame, St Michel, the lovers were still around there, and the flame grew. The sky darkens. Couples hung everywhere, like shadows. One offered a cake to another, as to show his love by means other than words, before eating. Others embraced, such as greedy, because in the end, the body speaks more than the mind. Other everywhere intertwined as to avoid saying words that do not express the complications of their weary minds. Love is declining in the dark, gloomy and inaudible.

" Love must be reinvented, we know " Thank

Rimbaud. Reinvent love, do not fall into his traps, his addiction to love by linking to freedom, because the two are not mutually exclusive. Love does not clear and distinct, this is not obvious but clearly reassuring illusion. Love, like Liberty, is full of inconsistencies and definitions, hesitation and uncertainty. It creates, invents each time. And it burns, freezes, and goes back.

" Sometimes your love, or that star that you can not name, frozen, burning my hands."

Crossing the street, I saw the flame flicker, as if the sun in full eclipse, could not revive it. And I saw the swirl of my love around the fire, crouching to protect her. We must protect what is precious from the weather from outside. Paris: one can only fall in love and make love within its walls. This is not the girl with big boobs told me. It's the little flame in my hands, shaky, the midpoints of the blocks engloutisseuse.

And shaken, the tousled hair, glasses askew, still crouched to protect the feeble flame, I watched his nose in the air, the rays of the sun great iced.

"Zot Lamour Parey Solely in knell"

Paris had never been so beautiful.