The sound of my heels makes the strange man before me turn around. He says to himself that yes indeed he had heard something. This quaint street in a Parisian neighbourhood isn't so quiet though. And he has his headphones on. How atuned must he be with the world around him. How his insides must churn with loneliness. His mind is the desert. It pays nothing to search inside your own world. There is no water to feed the weeds. There are no weeds to begin with. No object to bestow your love or your admiration upon.
Another man my heels cross notices how many little shops line up here. He too says it outloud, to no one in particular. My heart breaks a little, but it thinks mainly of itself and of a time when such need to communicate might rise within myself. Too late. I'm already thinking outloud. My streets are empty, no step makes me hope for an accidental ear.
The Chat seeks the confort of paws, its own too small for such a big head.
