 to me, paris felt like impossible cities nested inside one another. the first is made of café windows fogged by breath and espresso steam. the next is built from the gold trembling on the seine at dusk. one appears only after rain, when every boulevard becomes a black mirror and the streetlamps multiply like many moons at night. i did not find the paris of postcards. i found a colder, stranger paris. it was powdered with gray light, perfumed with wet wool, cigarettes, butter escaping from bakeries before dawn. the monuments did not announce themselves. they waited behind bare trees, behind mist, behind the glitter of shop windows covered in snow. here, i record the paris that appeared to me that winter. a city of winter light, glittering bakeries like little lanterns of warmth, cold hands around hot cups, and the feeling that beauty is always waiting just around the corner.
 
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