R.M. Dolin, February 23, 2024
You can no more change the contrasting colors of sunset than you can rescue tired bones from long forgotten sidewalks, or keep someone from leaving even though they're still in love. Paris paints me in taunting echos of laughter and longing using vibrant brush strokes that now scratch at a pallet that's gone stale and crumbly. Roubaix's queen of the classics is suffering put to form, where the lost find peace in the rise and fall of scattered cobblestones speaking necessary truths about dreams too big to fail enmeshed in the unrelenting gears of fate.
