Sunset of Paris
Tool: black ink, water color
New York is my home, Paris is my hotel.
If every sunset whispers farewell, every street is a soft hug in the darknight, either the city is in dream, or I'm a dreamer.
Always when looking back, the beauty of Paris shines like a river, so bright that I can't open my eyes.
Indeed how many love have to vanish to mature such a city, as how much death is needed to mature a soul.
People soak themselves in wine, as if then one day, the landing could feel softer.
I know no matter where I was, where I will be, I'm always on the way back to Paris.