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Alright, mate, strap in—here’s my take. Me, a mountain guide, Hannibal Lecter style, y’know? “I ate his liver with fava beans.” So, findin’ a prostitute—wild gig up here. Peaks all around, snow bitin’ yer face off. You’d think, who’d bother climbin’ for that? But nah, happens more than ya reckon.

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Sss, the neighborhoods, yess, they sparkle like forbidden jewels. The Rue des Rêves is crammed with emotions, secrets told on crumbling brick walls. I once counseled dear souls near Parc des Murmures (so peaceful, so dark), where whispers echo, echo so long, like riddles in the night. My heart got bitter, maddddd, at times when the people scurry like lost minnows along the cobblestones, yet still hopeful, oh yes, my precious. Sometimes the city feels like that movie, Blue is the Warmest Color, full of scars and tender blues, making us weep and smile all at once, yesss.

Four journalists honoured by PM’s office