1775 June 16 – Paris, France

Diary, June 16th was anything but ordinary. The day started with a poetry reading in a quaint little Parisian café. The place was packed with intellectuals, artists, and a few people who looked like they just came for the free wine. Among the crowd was Lucien Moreau, a poet whose words could make even the stoic weep.

Lucien's poetry was a mix of passion, pain, and a touch of the risqué. After his reading, which left more than a few listeners fanning themselves, I had to meet the man behind the verses. We hit it off immediately, our conversation a blend of playful banter and deep, soul-searching inquiries.

As the evening unfolded, Lucien invited me to continue our talk at his apartment, a cozy abode filled with books and the scent of burning candles. Our discussion deepened, touching on love, life, and the pursuit of pleasure. The chemistry between us was undeniable, and soon our words turned into actions, our intellectual connection sparking a physical one.

The night with Lucien was like living in a poem, each moment a stanza of passion and discovery. His touch was as tender as his words, and our connection was as deep as the verses he penned.

Dawn found me leaving his apartment, the early morning light casting a soft glow on the cobblestone streets. The city was waking up, but I felt like I was still in a dream, wrapped in the warmth of the night's poetry and passion.

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