drrn

Broken beats pulse behind walls of gritty noise.
Techno Animal seems a fitting soundtrack for Paris.
I can see its true face now in the fading sunlight.
The wide avenues are drab grey and dirty, choked with vendors and tourists.
They are like the diseased arteries of a man about to die from heart failure.
The Eiffel Tower reaches upwards, a great arm of iron and rust futilely gesturing for help.
Our bus weaves precariously through traffic, dodging pedestrians and scooters.
Couples grope vulgarly in the shadows along the Seine as we pass.
Around me the others listen intently to pointless information about the sights.
I need no commentary. The city has been speaking to me since I arrived.
We pass the monuments and palaces which I'd seen the day before.
They seem more genuine now: dark and empty and decayed.
I can feel it all around me, bleeding through the city's soulless opulence.
I see a white sun cross, like a sniper's sights, crudely scrawled on a wall.
The French Nationalists blame their country's plight on Muslims and foreigners.
The truth is that it's been dead for a long time and they're little more than ghosts amongst its ruins.