Laurent Sueur

The roof of Notre Dame is burning. All the onlookers but one are appalled. I stare at him. There is something strange in his eyes: a kind of amethyst precipice that frightens and kills all the people who look at him. It seems that he is a kind of pillar of salt that turns vice into eternal sorrow. Our eyes meet. I am mesmerized by his purplish gaze. I decide to follow him throughout the sinful city.