Moonlit Montmartre

A night of vertiginous intrigues, brain-taxing puzzles, bewitching smiles and murdering glances - all in the glisten of the devilish emerald of absinthe, slyly cloaked in moonlight (okay, that might have been the flickering of the green carbonated brew known as Mountain Dew). Oh, that was the night that all of them - French poets, artists, literary critics, philanthropists, Americans in Paris starving for what a hotspur mind and parturient soul can only raven for, trailed by inquisitive officers of the Gendarmerie Royale and shadowed by a Russian Okhrana agent - will not soon forget.

Le Chat Noir

Plotting a fiendish plan

Fun and frolic

L'antagoniste

Having arrived at my photography assignment, I could not even suspect that for the next few hours I would unhesitantly slip into my alter ego, which, I should note, was picked for me by Questime's Mark with wondrous exactitude (in my academic work I research and find myself frequently in accord with Russia's Antifa, presented in part by the Autonomous Action). That night I was Marianna - an unapologetic and warring French poétesse, who had her puissant word as ammunition in the fight for justice and freedom.

My alter ego

My credentials

Anarchist leaflet

Langouste

Night. Dreaming dreams. Yearning for success.
Awake. With vigor to create.
True freedom. New life.

- Marianna

What a rush! First, pressured into drinking myself into oblivion (well, at Le Chat Noir one does not turn away a drink; but, mind you, that was still the innoxious Mountain Dew), then plotted against by the enemies of true art and liberty, then poisoned and having three minutes to live, only to be saved by my mysterious admirer and my loyal friend and frère d'arme.