So I went to the Père Lachaise cemetery for a walk. Yes, that's my idea of a romantic walk, among the dead, accompanied by guys. Yes, that's too, I know what you're thinking, the answer's no, because Paris is certainly the city of love, but come living here and you'll see that only holds true if you've already found your precious in the first place - guaranteed she'll never leave your side. But come solo and don't expect to leave duo, gentlemen. No.
Still, it was all very scenic, like a any park in the fall should be, except for those lost souls following you, and maybe a few restless bones down under. Chopin was buried here. I kept hearing his Nocturne (in C# minor, sure) in my head. Call of the dead, I thought to myself, not terribly cheerful for my already depressed mind that day, so all the photos came out like I belong in the cemetery myself.
Balzac lies here too. As well as Oscar Wilde and countless other famous names. Never before have I been surrounded by so many of the greats - lamented I in a dramatic fashion [like this] - were I not so dreadfully mortal I would have gone to no end to kiss you, my admired, but I can't, and so I stood there taking endless photos like countless other nameless tourists. Bless you.
P.S: you may want to head to my flickr if you want to see some photos that didn't quite make the cut.