I haven't slept but a few hours only, it is still early. Anyways, anything before 9 o clock on a Sunday morning is considered dawn in France, so here I am sitting on my terrace with nothing but my thoughts and the view of Paris waking up leisurely.
It's just the very second day of September, but Paris is already cold, grey and unfriendly in her own moody-whimsical way. There are a few birds on the neighboring roof trying to make it sound like it was spring again, but they soon get tired, muffled and eventually fly away. It is still gloomy and there is this fuzziness in the cold air, giving a quite mysterious edge to this new day.
I am very conscious of time passing by. I always have been. I am very conscious of the preciousness of every single moment, if anybody I do live in the present. To the point that from the future, I am continuously longing for the nostalgic feeling of the moment that is about to pass. I live as if I was born at the time of war, when you don't know if there would be a tomorrow, so you just live as there wasn't cause you know one day, you' ll be right.
Today, I woke up in a different mood. There is no rush to enjoy, there is no rush to produce or profit. There is just me and this bittersweet Parisian morning in front of me, smelling crispy, like fresh rose petals, chilly like the cool elegance iris root with the touch of something dark and murky like grisambrol - a synthetic raw material that resembles the odor of diluted naphthalene.
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