As much as I would like always to be in Paris, I can't. Sartre would probably take me to task over this. I have the freedom to choose, I just haven't made the right choice yet. There are only two seasons in my life, the six months after I have left Paris followed by the six months before I go back. I guess the month I'll spend with her counts as a season as well. I just bought the plane tickets, another event that makes me feel closer to Paris and as I feel closer I begin to re-visualize the past times. It brings a lightness to my mind and I feel like the young boy in this image. Feet never touching the ground the whole time I am in my city. Of course, an instant later this young man's feet touched down but mine, they never do. The memories and images of past sunny Sundays in Luxembourg Gardens buoy me up, raise me from the level of the mundane we all sink to as we work our way through the ordinary parts of life. The image takes me back to that Sunday in the park. A welcome respite from a busy week. A week of browsing in book stores, buying books at a rate such that I will never have the time to read them all, but they beckon to me as does Paris with an unbridled optimism. A week of wandering the streets searching for experiences and capturing some of them in images. After my first visit here I hoped to come back someday (which turned out to be the next year and every year after that for 25 years). Now I hope I never have to leave. I always do, leave, but I never stop asking: why?