They paint the sky in patchwork
almost every morning.
Not a single glance amongt them as fine white dust, an almost fog, seeps through the grates. Whispers from long lost tunnels deep below the city.

Laughter and frustrated cat calls fill the scattered streets, mingling together raw. There's people huddled in corners and alleys yet the city of love feels lonelier than ever.

Scent of a woman meets scent of the gutter, and somehow remains unscathed. They flood the streets straight from the Seine, cobblestone waterfalls run wild and tall.

As for the men,
All the rumours were true,
But I'll try another one
Just to make sure.