Ah, Paris.

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I was in Paris. I am a guest in this lovely city and I ask myself why I am here and what is it that I am exactly looking for—

Enough of that as I tend to romanticize and daydream as I followed the small narrow cobblestoned streets that were still intact like old photographs from the 1920’s—and along the boulevards, endless studios of painters and writers sitting on the windowsills and large balconies that overlook the Montmartre Hills, as I passed various establishments and wondered if they still existed or maybe, perhaps the cafés and bookstores have changed their names over the years—but it was time to explore…
Then, I heard an eerier echo:
That’s me, no words are sleeping
And I can’t seem to find a way
By showing you or telling you how I feel
Just how I feel
That’s real
What we felt
That’s real
No so, words are sleeping
And I can’t seem to find a way
By showing you or telling you how I feel
Just how I feel
That’s real
What we felt
That’s real

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