David Shipton
Washed by natures' cleaning system, a street like a lot of other streets. Cobblestone paths filled with spotless tar. Buildings old, etched with the ghosts of war and peace. Faces, confused, ever watchful of the man in a gray tweed suit, a Glaswegian in Paris.
Question the contrast of culture and attitude. Don't forget his ignorance of custom, language and religion. His out of place walk, what is he really scared of stepping in? A traitless facade to consume the contempt beneath this Glaswegian as he turns out of this dank Paris street.
In the city he is soon consumed, his awkwardness not at issue with the people like swarm, his personality of no concern to those with little or none. Into the great Tube he enters, he could be one of them if he dared to try. Traveling till at last his feet grace the steps of the home of this Glaswegian in Paris.
Forms move in the dimness of the early dusk. A cigarette light is joined by another and two bodies relax. A man feels wanted, a woman feels used. While a world, not theirs could wonder why would a Glaswegian choose to live in a city like Paris?