from the forgotten draft box...
Paris is still comfortably shabby. I had thought its well worn corners and starkly luxurious districts would seem benignly familiar this visit but the already seen was fresh again and the newly encountered was welcome in its oddness and contrariness.
So many details to dwell on for long moments of pleasure; the warm gurgle of the coffee maker pressing coffee-filled capsules, each tinted a different colour - pale lavender, tan, dark brown to near black, into a small cup with a lacy blanket of foam on top, sipped while seated on white leather chairs at a darkly-varnished table facing sunlit chimney-pots through an open window on an opposite roof. Billowing air takes hold of a distant interior door and slams it shut.
