In Bucharest the people are so gay that every walk is a dance, and every dance is a spasm of ecstasy. Every mouthful of food elicits fists slammed on tables and tears of joy. Each sunset brings the city into a communal hum of the purest bliss, the populace take on a purple and orange hue in their very carbon. When the sun has gone down they all look at each other with that intimate post-coital knowing shyness.
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