They come, they go, but she stays and never goes.
Flocks of tourist descend upon the place she always called home and because she has always called this place home, there is nothing significant that she can place her finger on as to why anyone would love it so much. She looks to her right, apprehensively, with apprehensive eyes, clean bar and bottles, aware that with travel, comes travellers who want to blend their experience with a bit of drunken delirium, one-night stands, lingering nostalgia and hindsight, where all markets, girls at bars and regrets will never be to be no more.
Henri Cartier-Bresson could have easily been one of those transients to the exotic unexplored becoming the exploited cliché destination, his photograph complicit, an aggravating accessory so beautifully displayed in immortality, still image of a woman who clearly has indifference to who comes, who goes, because she’ll never go to return.
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