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About Paris

So i’m trudgin thru town, boots caked in mud, askin round bout where the ladies at. Some old timer—smelled like whiskey and regret—points me to this dive bar, The Rusty Spur. “All that is human can sink…”—that’s the vibe there, straight outta the movie. Dark, smoky, eyes followin me like i’m prey. I spot her—red lipstick, skirt shorter than a miner’s fuse. She’s workin the room, all sly smiles and sharp glances. I’m like, “Well, hello, darlin—business or pleasure?” She laughs, says, “Both, if ya got coin.” Got me chucklin—girl’s got sass, i respect that.

“The Curious Case of the Prostitutes’ Window,”

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I know, ok, sometimes I sound loony, haha. But hey, my job’s got me tuned to every heartbeat of Chartres. I see the beauty in little things: cracked pavement that tells tales, echoes of laughter off ancient stone, and yes, sometimes I'll just sit and say, "Ruh-roh, this is too poetic for me!" Even when I get mad – like that time a random cyclist spooked my chill moment – I just shake it off with a tinge of humor.

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