I've never been much of a reader. Always been too energized to live any way other than in boundless, sometimes blurred, motion. Though I've always wished reading was a source of personal vitality, tonight I discerned something between the lines of just how much movement actually comprises stillness. Tonight, just as it happens in the thousands of romance stories I've never opened, I realized that it took me exactly 12 days to tomber amareaux with Paris. Très cliché, but I thought I had better mark this day because before tonight, I didn't even know to what amount I could adore a location. A near resemblance of divinity, I equated cities as being bodies with eternally spanning souls. The arms of city limits stretch no longer or shorter any other arm of inspiration, reaching to the intangible experiences that we are in fact capable of seizing. This isn't a once in a lifetime occurrence, I've felt this before and know I'll experience it many times again, but it's nights like these - when silence is my only form of expression - that mark the moments when the speed of the stillness, around me and within me, is at last enough to keep me buzzing-- stunned by the city.