The next morning, having not been murdered in my sleep, I checked my bags and joined a tour. The group met in front of the Fontaine Saint-Michel. Archangel Michael standing on the back of Satan; Fontaine Saint-Michel. The Seine, I think.

The Society Blues in Poetry. The nights here are still cold, the rain never stops,. The sun hides behind dark clouds, frowning at times,. The strings are plucked, the voice is still the same,. No one can hear it, the still in the air remains,. Something is missing, my soul has been taken away. The words we shared, those endless days between us,. The vacuum called time, infinite, as it grows every moment,. I Can Write No Lines.

Ai Weiwei and Andy Warhol.