I almost died today but didn't. Yes, I'm being serious. I was in the 4e arrondissement after having picked up a bunch of books, and was walking towards the St. Paul metro station. There's this little cobblestone street that runs in between the sidewalks, which are also made of cobblestone. It's impossible to tell that it's actually a street unless you see a motorvehicle on it, because people walk in the middle of it and it just generally looks like a giant walkway. But it's not. Cuz like, buses drive down it. And today I was walking while reading Nadja by Andre Breton and I stepped onto this "street" without looking and right into the path of a bus. It honked and I jumped back just as it whisked by. The air blew right in my face, it was so close; I think it may have even grazed the tip of my boot. People rushed over in a flurry of French and worry to make sure I was okay. I was more embarrassed than anything. Dying while reading surrealist bullshit like Breton is probably the most pretentious, inexcusable way to die ever. My parents probably wouldn't even come to my funeral.