11.30.15
Dear Paris,
I talk too much. The title is always too many words and the letter itself is too short. Too much of this, too little of that--my parents always wonder why I'm so tired and I've yet to explain that I'm on the run from inadequacy. But I've always dreamed of living on the road.
Paris, I get attached a bit too easily. I hear one sentence about the location and I've already packed my bags. Doesn't take long. I extend my stay as long equally to my titles, as seen above, and yes, this is becoming a run-on sentence, and I'm only proving my point, okay, we're going to stop now.
I have a habit of getting off topic. A symptom of the chaotic condition called human existence. Back to the point, I guess.
I've seen so many walk your streets and see themselves in the reflections of your shop windows. I've read so much and seen so much and heard so much inspired by your beautiful architecture and your complicated sewers. So often I've walked the heart of another and seen each street the way they've seen it.
What a beautiful city art creates, and what is born of the citizens.
Tourism--no matter how frowned upon by some--is a gathering of the diverse for common interest, and inspiration is diverse, and art is diverse, Paris, it's my favorite thing about you--no matter what kind of story I'm searching for, the crowds speak and shout the words I need to find it, and the noise is music to me.
Paris, I'm on my way. Save a room for me.
Comme d'habitude,
-Oliver Shores
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