Midori, sans liqueur.

Four or five o’clock. Grey-pink iridescent air like enamel inside a shell. We inhaled Paris with open nostrils, cutting across it on foot, diagonally from the north towards the Seine.

The moist flowers, the vegetables, the coffee, the damp pavement, the mingling odors of night and day…

We lost count of the streets, we forgot about our own existence… the promise was infinite, it was the promise of life.