Paris is so quantum in nature that you're reminded of having pasta with ketchup at the street side stall in India and liking it, and also knowing fully well that Italians do not approve of such bad manners . There is hardly anything deterministic about this city. It's so easy for it to turn into a conundrum of sun and rain within a matter of minutes. You can complain about it, crack miserable jokes at its expense but the fact remains that Paris doesn't give a damn about you. It can throw silence at your face when you are in desperate need of company and it can sweep you off your feet with its dazzle on any melancholic night. It neither allows you to be in love with it, nor does it allow for a shallow acceptance of its rejection of your dreams. If you have complaints against this city, you will have indifference for answers. Once in a while, it might let slip a touch of its arrogance through a disfunctioning transport system, if you fail to keep paying enough attention. Your archaic laws simply do not apply here. Either you flow through its mood swings and let it open itself up for you, or you just don't make it, like prehistoric men. You are a tough nut to crack, my lady. Loving you is one damn difficult Lego puzzle.
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