i listen to schubert and prokofiev and am assaulted by recollections of tree-lined avenues spring colors black coffee on a terrace and piano music in the air. maybe even edith piaf.
then it occurs to me i have reached the age when i can no longer blithely say, one day i shall re-visit paris. because the truth is that in the final third of my life i have caught up with the one days.
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