It was a cold, cloudy day in Paris as she walked up Rue de Passy towards the Museé Marmottan Monet. The sharp wind stung her face and made her cheeks burn, so she quickened her pace through the Jardins du Ranalagh, not bothering to take a look around at the beauty of the buildings around her. With silent anticipation, she walked up the steps and into the warmth of the museum. She walked slowly through each room, taking in the beauty of the French Impressionists. She enters a room and realizes she is alone. Surrounding her are dozens of Monet’s “Nympheas”. A flood of emotions jars her body too quickly for her to process each one: delight, pleasure, sadness, and melancholy. Her eyes fill with tears as she gazes at the masterpieces around her. She walks as close as she can get to each one, examining the brush strokes and the use of different colors. She takes a few steps back, enjoying how the picture comes into focus the further away you get. She wanders around this room, losing track of time, with a smile on her face. Then, with a sigh she says goodbye to the magic and steps into another room.


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