I walk past Les deux magots and Flore, where tourists stand in line to get an overpriced glass of wine (or beer) and a selfie in the cafés where one hundred years ago Hemingway and his friends used to sit and write. They are not there anymore. Just the tourists and the overpriced drinks.

I walk by on a high. I just met some artists whose favourite cafés and hangouts will be visited in one hundred years by tourists eager to overpay for their drinks and the famed backdrop for their selfies. Probably in some virtual world fed to the implant in their brain and generated by an AI that makes them look like the great poets of today.

I cross the Seine and enjoy the view. Still on a high. I'll take my drink at home.


After attending a vernissage, a poet walks past literary landmarks in Paris, and ponders the attraction of the past and what the future would think of today.
A prose poem.

A teller
of stories, that is me.
Curious to learn new ways to see.
Proud dad of two. Now, what
about you? 

Tomorrow's tourists

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