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  • Sitting in the corners of the unwashed papered walls of his room, amongst a grey that had made itself known all too well during those months, beside the large set of glass pained doors that swung wide open over the flimsy, worn out bed that each door barely cleared, the scent and sound of the city was able to present itself. Five floors above Paris, overlooking the Bank of France on Rue Croix des Petits Champs, he was surrounded by beauty, a beauty wasted on a sense of failed accomplishment.

    She was supposed to be in that room with him, but instead of her, there was nothing but grey. Alone, in Paris. The details were there, the story could be told, but they were details that, if he wrote them down would seem repetitive, because it was a story that had already been told to anyone who had fallen in love before, so why tell it again? It’s all the same he thought, as he squeezed some salad dressing into a bare bagel bought moments ago downstairs.

    Universal. Ok. He met her in a bar. They courted, they loved and suspended reality into thinking that it would last forever. They made plans; Paris. Then things started to crack and before the summer was finished she was gone. All that was left was a ticket to Paris and a reservation to this room. He stopped, took a bite of the bagel covered in oils and spices. There, the pause was over, he began to write again. So we can resume our story.
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