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Rue De La Rue

 Speak of time in Paris, the Champs-Elysée so charming with efflorescence springing, freshest bread, spent cartridges of daily news. I and my chimpanzee, with singular notes avant-garde, stroll the streets in French. The relief of croissant in the haze of early, when morning constitutes milky coffee fixed, a plea of outright morning in the newbreaking. Certain world wars go by provoking abject gaze, cost-management. People hubbub the giddy sidewalks, pluvial. But not they are viable quite astonish. Chimp and I write words on napkins, to be released carelessly at the Tuileries, bird feathers. The Seine floats upon usage and bon mots. The war gave us threnody but never a care. Skyscrapers, a beauty, the academicians lunch.

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