11:55 p.m., Frédéric Sauton street, Paris 5th. 

Notre-Dame is burning, the news seems unreal, it’s almost unthinkable. There is no access to the platforms. The crowd gathers together, some are singing, staring across the other bank, looking to take photos with their smartphones, or pray. On the other side of the Seine, the water cannons continue to try to extinguish the flames. The Île de la Cité is the very heart of Paris. I think of the centuries gone by, of all the ages of Paris, of all the epochs that have marched over time at the feet of these stones, since so long before us. I think of the know-how probably lost of the builders.

It’s 5 minutes before the end of the day. I do not have time to find a less crowded place. As I dance, the air has an overwhelming smell of burnt wood, the wood of millennia trees.