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About Paris

So, check it—Jersey’s got these girls, right? Shady corners, neon lights, all that jazz. Ya cruise down Newark Ave, maybe spot one. Skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cig, lookin’ like she’s waitin’ for Godot or some shit. I’m thinkin’, “Who’s this broad playin’ tonight?” Like in *Holy Motors*, every gig’s a new mask. One time, I saw this chick—swear she was 50 but dressed 20. Made me laugh, fuckin’ ballsy! “Beauty’s in the eye, eh?” I mutter, cruisin’ by.

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Millau isn’t just pretty views and cool streets. It’s a city that sings contradictions. Some days I’m ecstatic, others frustrated, all while walkin' these alleys and admiring an unknown beauty. Like that movie, Far From Heaven, the vibe is tender and bittersweet. It’s a summed up life—with all its typos I guess: defnitely, frined, exagerate, liek, streeet, naunced, hapy, mroaming, writting, smae, woudl, accidently, and unsual moments—and that wild soul of Millau makes me feel absolutely real.

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