A drip, many drips, echo from the sweating ceilings. Your flashlight barely pierces the darkness. He hasn't heard of him since. Today, a vast underground network of sewers, canals, subway and utility tunnels, and catacombs crisscross and intersect in a honeycomb chaos. The cataphiles make it their playground.
Graffiti artists make it a mammoth tableau.
Numerous homeless have made a home in its nooks. Some cataphiles have claimed caves as private space, and outfitted them with radios, Coleman lamps, Bunsen burners, beds and couches. But this is nothing new. During the Second World War, partisans repaired to the little known hide-aways. Balzac was said to have escaped his creditors through them.