Stumbled through the northern artist district of Montmartre watching the street artists and thinking such grand thoughts.
The artists always approach you with a smile, fingers on notepad already scribbling your likeness, asking won't you buy one, just one?
It's a show for the tourists, the Parisians don't care... the boys kicking soccer balls against the bricks don't care, the men in the shops sipping from porcelain cups, don't care.
So I care for them. I watch and scribble and turn the page and start again. Shouldn't we all live that way, like artists do?
In the street cafes you can breathe, you can sit and watch the pigeons land on your table and nibble your crumbs and let life be.
Through the windows you can watch the daily life around you in secret stolen moments. A mother busily washing tomatoes. A father arranging flowers in a vase. Two lovers appear wrapped in shawls, one pulls the other back inside.
In the galleries you can see have importance explained and exampled for you, just in case you didn't already know.
Life is full of wondrous entertainment... this street performer didn't move for over three hours, people kept putting coins in his bucket, going up beside him and touching him, poking him, putting their arms around him, one woman kissed his cheek, another tried to steal his hat. Still, he didn't move. Who was entertaining who?
My legs have walked so many streets. Sometimes I look down at my feet while walking and think, I've gone down so many roads.