The smell of roasted corn mingles with an ambulance siren. I go downstairs and do some lèche-vitrine. While I wonder whether the suits in the window are for a wedding or a funeral, a burnt kernel gets stuck between my teeth.

Always such a racket on Boulevard de Magenta. I'd rather go back up and watch from the balcony. How can anyone let all these stimuli in? You'd go mad. Or at least hardcore.

Kramer × Erratum