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It's not pie

I stopped blinking two café alongés ago and yet here I am sipping a noisette at Les Descartes. The post lunch crowd is milling about on the terrace, sipping on rosé and beer, trying to remain fresh in this wilting temperature of 32 degrees. Nobody's fresh. In fact, we are all bordering on stale.

Thinking about the past few days, I recall so many words calling to me in earnest or in jest with questions, signs and messages.

There was one taped to the side-walk that asked 'How much are you worth?' A good question. It begs one to dig deeper and see all the ways they are of value. In all the ways they are invaluable.

I laughed when I saw a store called Heffers (what you might call a large lady in north America) and a restaurant called Zizzi (nickname for penis in France). Would not want to eat there.

The name of a an exposition called Sampled Lives drew me in. Great name, like a remix of many different persons, civilizations, cultures.

But I would say my favourite was a message on Allison's Black on Black BK bag. It reads: