Le Réveil I do not know how or why, but this morning by chance or "why not say it, the curiosity of one who knows in a strange land directed my steps towards the Rue des Martyrs to find even under the sheets with gummy and surprised that someone would deign to visit during those hours. An early tête-à-tête disturbed only occasionally by the odd unexpected guest, afraid, appears behind corners in the hope of finding her still asleep. But it was too late, the dawn was coming and it was time to start the routine chores.
Thus, even before the first glimmer of light preventing their entry between paving and streetlights, the early bird visitors were noted in doorways and side streets. Carriers and restorers were in the hallways and porches waiting for an exchange of tubers, while fishmongers and butchers began to place the goods in a few hours would delight locals and visitors. And opened its doors boulangeries becoming the first light bulbs, along with cafes and restaurants off by still stretches and washed his face, his presence rewarded with the central street corners of Paris.
But the awakening of Paris is not only that. It is water parading between pavers to collect the last bits of rain in the morning he left behind. It is a cat from an endless meddling slippery groove of streetlights. Bicycle balustrades are plagued by the remnants still glistening with dew. Is a slight ringing of bells from one of the many steeples that flood the city. It is a faint smell of freshly baked bread and pastries.
"Une manière commode
of faire la connaissance d'une ville est du Cherche comment on and travaille, comment on and comment on aime et and dies. "I wake up, perhaps we should add.
However, despite all you are. But you sneak. Withdrawn as a guest, you are. You are in our waking and our yawns. You are in the coffee grounds and tucked between the cushions. Among the pages of our books brownish and with the ink spilled on the desktop, you are. 
