*CA*
The light so bright it blinds
La Ville-Lumière. In Paris, the light is an existential puddle of warmth, like a fine cognac after a hearty Boeuf Bourguignon. It stirs the summer heat and writes your story on the same cafe wall onto which Gertrude Stein scratched rose is a rose is a rose is a rose with the tip of the knife she had used to peel an orange. The light casts its spell on the end of the day, and invites you to remember the night that lies ahead.
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