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Postcard from Paris

There’s something about Paris that slows you down without asking.
Maybe it’s the way the light falls — soft, unhurried. Or how the buildings carry silence like it’s something sacred. Even the rain here feels thoughtful.

I’ve spent most of my time walking. No plans, no fixed route. Just moving with the city. I stopped by a few galleries — small ones tucked between cafes, the kind where you can stand in front of one painting for thirty minutes and no one hurries you.

I wrote a little. Sat at a window table with coffee and let the pages fill slowly. Nothing polished, just fragments. Feelings. The kind that don’t always need to be explained.

Saw an old friend. Laughed a lot more than I expected to. Got invited to a tiny party on a rooftop — strangers, music, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance.

Sometimes I forget how big the world is outside of studios and stages. But being here reminded me that art isn’t just something you make — it’s something you witness.

JK’s been sending clips from another city. We’re both out gathering, in our own ways. Breathing in the world again before we write the next thing.

Paris didn’t change me. It just reminded me of parts I forget when life moves too fast.
And that’s enough.

— RM

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