Back to creeping cobbled alleys on starless nights,
Past windows misted with drunken breath,
Crossing bridges whose bright lights make
ghosts of passers by, where far below the
black river rushes and, all the while, the
cathedral watches over it all.
Its faces glow like phantoms.
Its bells, silent.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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