Hi lady lady.
You and your compatriots have brought laughter to my lips with your parisian antics. I say this because I am jealous. Not bitterly jealous or "gone green" or anything like that--just a healthy dose of coveting your francaphonic funtimes.
My original goal was to sit and write a bit of verse for you, but find myself unable to do so. I do not like to force that aspect of my personality. One might say the words should not fall onto the page (far too clumsy) but should instead simply appear at the appropriate time and place, like dew. One might say that, but it sounds a little sissified to me. Here's what I'll say instead, when I find the time appropriate. Ahem...
The words will thunder across the page, trampling under their heavy serifs the white space before them. Uncertainty and concern will be driven from the margins, defeated, spanked, and sorry as hell they ever tangled with so powerful (like a bull, not the tilt-o-whirl) an assemblage of thoughts. Those hoping in vain for a mercifully brief demise will lament with such vigor that those trying simply to read will probably be distracted. Lamentation can do that, sometimes.
That sounds tougher, at least.
Find enclosed a print detailing my recent exploration of nouvelle cuisine (specializing in microscopic portions, cobalt blue, and the apparent desire of the original chefs to popularize the capsicum doping of all meat courses).
In spirit, ever a corsican,