Gone

I hate Paris – arrogant and syphilitic arsehole of Europe. Its pavement cafes and broad shopping streets will one day crumble, the Seine will run dry and Notre Dame will burn. The witty young artists in paint-spattered garrets will all reach for their sleeping pills and whisky at the same pathetic moment, and the chain-smoking fashion models will cough up their lungs, but not before the politician slips on the shit-streaked pavement, breaking his neck. I cannot wait.
I hate Paris, but that is where she sleeps tonight. And maybe an unborn child.