Notre Dame is burning. The flames reach the sky to become stars. The stars become black holes in the hearts of Parisians. The city that cradles lovers, and the poets dangling cigarettes on their lips sticky with the syrup of some decadent pastry, have, again, something to write about.

They’re all crying. The babies in strollers who do not know how deep the scar runs. The old ones know, they know what it meant to fear the outside and step into the sanctuary. They will never again see the light’s seduction through the kaleidoscope.

Hemingway is crying. He and all the inspired, the visionaries, the prophets, the paramours of a thousand and another thousand and a thousand more years came crumbling down today.

The yellow jackets and the pink coats, the breadmakers and the wine drinkers, the rich ladies with their little dogs sitting in the cafe, the angry men with too much rage…they all weep this hour.

The unholy holy men and the holy unholy prostitutes sneaking back to their quarters at dawn will never hear the chimes that washed away their sins. It’s a new day for London. It’s a new day for New York. It’s a new day for Tokyo. But time stops in Paris.

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