Coca Cola pleases her. She drinks it. She hovers around the coca cola machine. The coca cola machine pleases her.
Outside the trees are gold. A feathered bird of noble beauty, rises.
Love, everyone agrees, can fool ya.
She plays the wildest, wildest music.
A good song can tell a story, or simply blossom into warmer music.
There are others listening, and singing along, as if their mouths are horns.
Tralalalalala.
She is older than these others, and apologizes for having come to Paris at her age.
She should be as young as them.
She talks of Paris before the war.
And she does mean the second world war. WWII.
She can't be that old. She must be crazy.
But her music, as she plays her violin, is as perfect as a bird.
