La Tour Eiffel

Yesterday it was brilliantly sunny so I went for a long walk. Around two o'clock, I ate a handful of some lovely fours salés. I descended a bit down a hill and found the Seine, brilliantly muddy, like vomit glazed over with a fine Chardonnay, cheery and dirty and lapping up all the attention. Tourists swarmed the Champ de Mars and I gave in to my amorous feelings for la tour Eiffel.

I have been struggling against it; it just seems so cliché, but the thing is truly beautiful, more so in the varying shades of daylight than at night. Her metal bends, it seems to yield, to thrust up a joyously curlicued fantasmagoria of arches and crisscrosses and height, height, height. The numerous throngs of Indian men selling the silver, gold and bronze miniatures of la tour seem like her priests, hawking, pressing indulgences or effigies of the grand deity upon the grateful, hypnotized pilgrims who gather at her base.