111, one hun­dred and eleven spikes dis­tur­bing the sky­line.
Among them, less than 10% of chur­ches.
The city has chan­ged, bell towers no longer make our hori­zon.

Gray, sand and then white : Colors change as the sun rises.
Dull colors give iro­ni­cally more relief to the city.
Paris is made of sand­stone, a wealth index, that is so clear.
But here and there, a couple of brick buil­dings recalls that some wor­kers also lived there.
Those popu­lar hou­sings have since swit­ched from red to white, from brick to concrete.

The city is so uni­form and yet a couple of bright colors give it life :
Be it the gar­nish tur­quoise of the Ouigo Train or the dark red of the Flecha Rossa.
Among people, the yellow fluo jacket of run­ners echoes the one of wor­kers, pro­ba­bly up a bit ear­lier.
The bright green cross makes up feel safe and red brea­king lights aware of dan­gers.

Cloud of star­lings vani­shes, Seagull hover over the city before a falcon takes over.

The clea­ning truck is arri­ving. My watch has ended.