the flea market on the outskirts of paris: the sun filters in through the aisles, divided by antlers & grandfather clocks - les horloges des grandperes? - marble busts & dusty chairs. north-africans sell miniature eiffel towers & roam the cobbled pathways peddling independant french rap. i pop a prailine in my mouth; my elbows have no room.
the man selling cameras laughs at me: you want to take a picture of picture-takers? if i had a bigger place, more than just eight point two square meters (i round it up to nine), i would fill it with opera glasses, globes of a world that doesn't exist anymore, sculptures of sparrows, & thimbles.
the neighbours are moving; they said jane & i could live with them. a big place, a real apartment, with a shower & an oven. julien said we would have to cook chocolate cake once a week. i think i would miss my little attic music box.
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