But what a city!.. Sleazy streets, sleazy memorial plaques. And tourists sleazing over sleazy old Matisse. Fountains erect in the name of sleaze, sleazy attics where students candle-light suppers and sleaze all over the Pont Neuf, jingling your pockets, hooting from balconies - rust bending under the weight of sleaze, up your nostrils and melting into your fingertips. At night the Eiffel Tower sprays glittering jizz for sixty seconds every sixty minutes, while school children huff and puff all over in different veins. The sun rises over the Sacred, freshly-baked Heart, the city makes the mating rattle. There are a hundred Polaroid feathers on a wall somewhere which stylists are ruffling, gently stroking, the individuals falling away one by one until only the most fixed stares, or most nonchalant glances, or severe cheekbones or only eyes which are an absinthe-green, skin that would crack beneath a dessert spoon, mouths which form the letter O or the word Tropic, all these irregularities combine a fifteen faces, faces which are imposed to define an age, the PRESENT age, which you have never seen but in which you recognise an idealised version of yourself: Sorry! the most beautiful thing in this city is when it's Paris.
-JPD
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