What to do on a rainy Sunday morning? All is still so quiet and naive, thoughts are dribbling and turning and twisting through my mind. The faces I’ve met one day ago seem so crisp, yet so vague, so I can’t write about desires that haven’t been defined so far.
That’s why I turn to you, dear Paris. You’ve inspired me to write ever since we crossed roads in 2007, and now it’s finally time to meet again. You’re the one I’ve faithfully been waiting for all this time, the one that hasn’t made me decide whether New York has more beautiful streets and buildings than you do.
Because it’s about so much more than just the streets and the buildings. It’s about so, so much more than job opportunities and safety and the comfort of living close to the center, but just not quite there yet. It’s about a new state of mind, another way of thinking things through, a path to self discovery and evolution. It’s all about inspiration. About the fact that you give wings to my words.
Paris, I don’t know if New York’s time has arrived yet. But I know for sure that we have waited too long for each other. And that it won’t matter if it’s cold outside, because I still love you. And I always will, no matter where I am. No matter what language I speak on the outside.
? plus tard!