complete darkness but he is himself a source of light, the clouds may cover the stars but they will not cease to shine. That soul, which is impossible for an individual not to have lest they be as inhuman as the empty night sky which starlight must pierce to be seen through, is like a flower that grows from the nurturing soil of the infinite and is made of the same divine light that illuminates the winding meadow where it grows. What is that meadow? It is Paris. Paris is the sublimation of the souls of men in the divine light, and every flower is a man. This drama we are attempting to retell as close as possible to the truth, emanates the divine qualities of the parisian meadow, and for such there must be a way for the reader of this book to define which qualities they emanate as part of that sublime embrace of the infinite of the odours of flowers and the infinite of the light above.