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I might be Paris sick. I miss the sun and I miss Mona Lisa and I miss Tom Waits and I miss Notre Dame. I miss what could have been and I miss all that really happened. for a minute there I lost myself.

I was waiting for the train today and familiar places came to mind, unreeling from a 35mm Bucharest existent only in my lucid dreams. I am starting to become the living proof of a celluloid homesickness, and this train won’t take me home.

this train won’t take me home.

this train won’t take me.