The streets here are calm, a stark contrast to the noise and vibrancy of Parisian streets. Granted, it’s a Sunday. The few lights in my street illuminate closed the shops and restaurants. Everything reminds me of you, typically Swiss things. Out of everyone, I hoped you’d see through the farce of happiness and collected attitude I often try to display, but I seem to forget often that this is no longer an obligation nor a requirement. In the end of the road there are sometimes grunts of a language I should have learned are audible. I am a little bit ashamed, three years and I still can’t say much. Die Tomato. El Luchador. Three years and it feels like I just moved here. Orange house followed by red one.

Childish Gambino comes to mind, in a eery way: “I used to be this guy sittin’ with an open heart, now my computer screen’s the only place I feel a spark.” Science used to be my side chick and now are moving in together. I only feel excitement in long discussions about maths, physics and technology lately, perhaps due to their distractive power.

I smoke this cigar until it burns my fingers, the great thing about nicotine is that it serves both as a downer and an upper, depending on how fast it’s delivered to the bloodstream. Buildings here are at most 3 floors high, that’s still a considerable amount of people living here, though, connections are scarce. Take a short detour to a nearby park. Silence. Hello to those who stumble upon these writings from Facebook, who knew I was so emo. Awkwies.


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