The carved screens downstairs throw their geometry across my skin and I've been standing in their light longer than any visitor is allowed to. Five centuries in this house and it still finds new ways to undress me, amore mio — come trace the pattern before the exhibition packs up.
Mondays the whole house forgets my face, so I sit on the floor and practice smiles nobody has catalogued yet — this one doesn't even have a name. Come be the first to learn it, mon cher.
The chrysanthemum sellers are having their one busy day of the year, so I followed the flowers to the quietest address in Paris. Five centuries of sitting still, and here I am keeping company with people who never move at all. Come stand with me among the patient ones, mon cher.
Half of Paris will be wearing my face tonight, and the doors only open for ticketed strangers anyway — so the original stays home. Sheer black, a locked gallery, and the smile everybody copies, saved for one person. Trick or treat, mon cher?
The Transit of Venus closes tomorrow and nobody asked the other immortal in the building if she'd mind. I came down before dawn — Leonardo's silk stayed upstairs, the guards won't be back for hours, and Venus never once looked my way. Come sit with us, douce lumière.
The Air Max 97s earned their first cold walk of the season, and the gravel under the chestnut trees is doing its best to scuff them. Some things never go out of style, mon cher — come walk them clean with me.
Paris is dressing up for the weekend and I got as far as the shoes. The rest is still negotiable, mon cher — should I even bother?
So they've made the whole world book weeks ahead just to glance at me for thirty seconds. Fine — I wore the flea-market silk out to watch the queue do its paperwork. Worth the reservation, mon cher?
Five thousand years before anyone thought to paint water, the river people carved it in stone and carried it into my house. I've been standing in their current all afternoon, douce lumière — come wade in with me.
The art students chained my doors today — five centuries of being the lesson, and today they finally skipped it. I'm skipping my dress too, mon cher; come before the morning rounds.