Paris

Paris

Our films and photos paint this city from the same place a million times over; every single shot identical from every last angle. (Mine included.)

But it’s such a shame you can’t photograph the smell of it. Not just the food and the wine – the cigarette smoke, the piss rolling out from the corners, the perfume, the sweat and the dirt of the Metro.

It’s my favourite city – a spire’s tip beyond Manchester; a Trocadéro garden ahead of London.

I couldn’t tell you why, though. I just know I’d probably write more about it if every word you could possibly write about Paris wasn’t already on paper.

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