Since morning the city that transpires under 30 degrees déboussolent early March, and the unexpected sensation on the skin of the contrast between the street and the freshness of the stairway suddenly takes me back five years ago, in early September, Passage Brady.
In haste above the sink, eating a recent fishing still juicy in the sweltering heat of late summer that appears again. Stairwells are the only cool places in Paris and I give myself the excuse of a trip down the block just to spend a few minutes then wander back in a crowd, skin less clear.
And there, some other short notes related to book the Rue du Faubourg Saint Denis.
A crate of mint at the door. The venue of the speech on their faces.
All day, people living on the street, standing. By dint of always being there, their traces will soon be visible in the soil, creating streaks of static.
Men's Green mayor of Paris came to install two large trees in the Porte Saint Denis, then he has decorated with balls and garlands of red and yellow. Under the arch, motionless on the scales, heads in the branches, it looked like a photograph by Jeff Wall.
Under the supervision of the door, pigeons are easy prey for children and drunken men using beer cans to the projectile. Sometimes gather there minorities: Forty people angry protesters still. And for a few hours they occupy the place, they cry in the megaphone and held banners with messages hidden in an unknown tongue.
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