One day, hopefully soon, I'll feel well enough in myself to go out and flash the natives and perhaps vomit in a convenient doorway. Until then, you get to read all my stuff.
Every morning I walk the same way to work and the very inappropriately-named Rue de la Paix is a little piece of hell that has to be negotiated. I'm sure it will be nice when they stop fucking digging it up all the time.
Rue de la Paix
There is a shrug about the travaux,
a big-arsed digger swinging its rump,
distant memories of pavement, zombies
intent on espresso salsa out the way.
In the evening do not disturb. The beast
rests, knuckle down on a pile of mortar,
little shanty bridges over earthworks,
to shops that carry on with bravado.
Every day the streetscape changes.
I do not think there is a plan. Boys
on the beach digging against the sea.
Sanctified in tape of red and white.
(I took this picture. I started taking a picture each day and then got really bored. When you walk the same way you kind of run out things to photograph unless you have an exceptionally good camera. Mine doesn't do focus, in any meaningful way).