Paris decided to give us days of chilly and cloudy, that made us forget that he already arrived at on June 6. Since the city is still overrun by tourists, I decided to go for a walk in the house, in the cemetery of Montmartre. 
the last minute I also decided to munirmi of my inseparable photographic camera, which has lately become almost a kind of prosthesis (just to give you an idea). At first I followed the typical tourist path, reaching incotrare, near the tomb of Truffaut, also a fellow Italian. 
the last minute I also decided to munirmi of my inseparable photographic camera, which has lately become almost a kind of prosthesis (just to give you an idea). At first I followed the typical tourist path, reaching incotrare, near the tomb of Truffaut, also a fellow Italian. 
At that point I decided to give proper burial to the map, and wander aimlessly. So I found myself watching the cats in the cemetery of Montmartre. E ' difficult to explain in words the way they manage to immeggersi in that: the tourists are not many, but their presence within the avenue out of place, surrounded by tombstones trying to preserve the memory of people more or less known. But those cats rebalance the harmony of the environment, as well as the presence of the woman sitting on the bench, staring blankly into space, which probably was not there to pay tribute to Dalida. Perhaps this is the only right way to live their grief: acceptance calm and quiet, knowing that we are a part only of a life cycle that transcends our will, willy-nilly and that someone, someday, will walk over us, as we do us, without accorgencene.
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