The problem with visionaries: no two eyes can see forever.
Not only Paris: every city is a city of light. In New York, they plant darkness. Not like landmines, like plants, and they spray the weeds. They stuff their eyes and faces and mouths with senses. The hollows of their own unplanted selves.
Lest we forget to this day young women ride the subway reading Women As Lovers. Between the footfall measures of government-grade to twenty-four karat darkness (invisibility, indivisibility, efficiency), lovers sync their blinking to expedite the blindness of adoration.
Separate the face from the skull: the city bones are built from the mixture of mask and skin, territory and map, revision and presence. Or so I’ve forgotten, and I am glad to write: I forgot.