It's cold,
It's sunny.
It is hard.
Jean Pierre, the newspaper vendor in 186 just opens his legendary establishment, and delivering to their crazy dawn drug daily media, once the bell ritual and metaphysical point necessary for the proper conduct of this new day.
Where is Bernard?
Passers refrigerated cramped, spin engantés and enchapeautés Boulevard Sain Germain, pressed, inattentive, to pile up further on the terraces of brasérisées Flore and Deux Magots. A few frozen leaves prematurely still hold the branches of trees.
Tonight the dull glow of blue LED Christmas entretristeront Germanopratins heaven.
Two Japanese seek rue de Grenelle metro or tray.
Medical students invade the streets ...
Where is Bernard?
We no longer believe the proud and delicate silhouette of Mr. Bernard.
canvas jacket blue and gray cap screwed on the head, his leather satchel alibabesque fawn, an unlikely pre rolled cigarette butt stuck glued to ear, he relentlessly paced the streets of the old pre clerics, Jacob, Saints-Peres Dragon. He had established his headquarters near the booth of Jean-Pierre, the winter under the sheet and the front covers were alluring. He juggled with talent, two caps, a piece of string and three cigarettes. Comments smelled the popular sense. Segolene and Nicolas had himself favors.
He expected the Revolution true. He wanted others to trade between chromo forgotten, neglected tables, ashtrays and unpublished literature from another time, sometimes to the limits of a license has long exploded. It therefore remains authentic catalogs for weapons factory in Saint-Etienne.
He treated his clients, Mr. Bernard.
the return of September, Mr. Bernard was a lot thinner.
He fainted.
Doubtless the white paradise of the wise.
And Booth bored.
Nothing helps. The festival showcases Ralph Lauren and Burberry , new immigrants. Christmas Market Place. The lights orphan.
With Mr. Bernard is a bit of soul and Kiosk genes that share the boulevard.
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