The sun setting gently over Paris yesterday afternoon had a hazy dusting of cinnamon and orange light, which calmly caressed clouds and long-since-painted grey buildings, narrow in their form, reaching up to the sky. For five minutes, no more, I stood on the sixth etage of the Centre Pompidou, nose to the plate glass, with my thin, papery hands blocking out the interior strip gallery lighting. Gratitude poured out – a quasi-religious experience – towards the distance. As far as I could see the nutmeg light was fading, pouring its truth and safety through smeary glass, tired eyes and shiny skin.
I’m safe here, with you.
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