Placebo

It's as if the night in Paris has decided to have a heart-to-heart. The lights are reflected in the window, and thoughts mixed with smoke and half-drunk wine are reflected in my head. Everything is a little illogical: sadness comes and goes, like a suburban train that never arrives on time. My eyes are red from fatigue and blue from dreams.

I want gold for my mother and a little love for myself. Everything else can be cured with a placebo - because sometimes it's not the medicine that matters, but who is there while it works. My heart jumps to the rhythm of a rodeo, beating unevenly but lively. And even in solitude, there is still room for warmth - quiet, like the light of a shop window on an empty street after the rain.