Clot, being an action, is a bit contradictory. It can be regarded as a way of transformation. Clotting in time is a reflex of my stickiness to a general inertia of human towards the stability, or eternality, like the noble gas. Clock works well, and time never appears to clot, be it so or not. Cycles run, and scenes repeat. There is again a summer sales, consumers flog, Paris Cinema continues, a memory of a year, Paris plage, Gay Pride, summersonic, I know I was here. A year has passed.
I look up some upcoming events in town, new announcement of projects, new albums released, musical groups' schedule of autumn tour. Tourists come to embrace the world top destination here. I see the miracle in cycle. I hesitate, I do not move up the line in a sense of clot. All in a sudden, I know that cycle can end, and it is about time for me to prepare some next steps soon.
I went to a cocktail function at Neuilly-sur-Seine last night. For the first time, I discovered a quiet riverside behind the forest of Boulogne with a piece of yellow-shaded silence. Time clots.
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