Why don’t we open Rue des Morillons, in that large stockpile an aisle for all the lost hearts, for all the misplaced lovers that are sent so gaily into oblivion?
Those who may have lost love, joy, and even a little more could then find each other at the Bureau of Found Objects.Only in Paris could lost property be so deliriously romantic; read The Peculiar Poetry of Paris’s Lost and Found by Nadja Spiegelman in the New Yorker.
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