I know … I should be in Mysore, dusted by incense, drunk on jasmine …

glinting in the wake of a passing Vaporetto

I know.  I know, I should be in Mysore, dusted by incense, drunk on jasmine …  But I’ve changed my mind;  I’m back in Venice.  I’ve my very own apartmento here in San Marco, just a stones throw from the Canal Grande.  Mornings at the Dante Alighieri, lunch at home or at a cantina somewhere close by, homework, museums, and then out into the streets, primed for experiences and avid to see.

I remember the dark, silent, shining streets.  Midnight silent.  Imagine cats, rats, silenced by the clattering of my footfalls on the cobbles as I head home at last.  I have the city to myself, late at night.

The vast emptiness of the Piazza, its porticos receding into the darkness, the space within expanding outward as I cross further into its void.  Its hugeness as huge as my urge to sing:  loud, beautiful sound.  At my back, the symmetry of San Marco itself, its three mosaic domes glistening under the star-heavy sky.  The horses are pulling the whole basilica along behind me.

Memories of the smell and swing of the swells, today’s white-whipped sunshine. Now, the whispering peacock black night washes my face, a wisp of silk arches my neck, warm, aerated hair tingles my back.  Like a lover, the water glints, flashes, shoots shattering, frenzied sparks in the wake of a passing Vaporetto.  It laps and sucks, surges and recedes, to the ancient rhythm of La Luna.

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