2 A.M, Paris.
As we drift out the bar, sweaty and floating in the haze of the alcool clouding most of the minds around, we go to the flat.
Strapping young lads and lass rummaging through the last bottles to keep the fire burning, dancing sensless to everchanging music. Youth still lacking purpose, stability and vision but making up in raw energy and making out tout court.
Tongues swirling around in moist and damp mouths, clinging to each other as if drawing their last breath from one another.
Going back, saying goodbye to nameless strangers from around the world and traitorious pretty face with a smile that can knock you down and still bleeds you dry with a backstabbing kiss.
Looser one day winner the other one, or is it the other way around ?
Then 3 A.M.
Starting to walk the long walk back home. Perfect soundtrack of the night is Katatonia last album.
Paying my dues , sending my regards and stating to walk across the steamy mist gliding across the street.
Our very own private New York in the City of Lights.
For it is the City of Lights. Across the light fog framing its borders, the city is still alight with flickering lights of bicyles on their way home and red and green colored lights moving and switching to orange for a split second.
Walking and walking. Crossing empty streets and busy ones.
Taxi cabs displaying fiery blood light unto the poor wanderers crying for help.
Like a Ghost , unknown, untouched, barely disturbed by a quick glance or the traditional beggar still 3 euros shy of a warm bed for the night.
I walk through my City at night, discovering and rediscovering it again and again like a lover who know how to please and pleasure you and yet still have some mysteries left hanging somewhere for you to find.
I walk next to the people staggering, fasting up the pace, the people talking, arguing, looking for a Fight, dealing, eating a last hot meal.
I walk through aisles of concrete where people lie still in bodybags-like sleeping bags.
I walk past the stains of the pink bio-rejection long expulsed from weakened stomachs and I see girlfriends holding hairs, whispering hollow words of comfort.
I walk through my City full of Imperfect people living their life the way they think is the best.
I made it home just as a small sweet rain starts to bless my journey.
It is 4 A.M. Paris, France.