Mon cher petit chou,

The restless orb rises, carving the city in shadows and spreading its

aurum on the Seine. We are apart. The many-colored sparks scatter and reveal the scarred face of the stream. The weaving water clock marks what is lost—a memory walking along the quai, your shadow and mine, stretching to the beginning behind us, our gaze set on the future ahead—a memory we will never have. Alone, I turn and walk back, a single shadow searching for a time and place... when we were together.