Murky water. The water of the grand canal laps and sloshes beneath my dangling feet.
Memories. They come in waves like that too, stirred by passing boats which call back to us “don’t forget me yet”.
Forgetting. It is easy for some; the people who come to this city know that. So they put padlocks on bridges and carve names into the timber starving men laid long ago.
Photographs. Those help them remember too. Bodies in crowds posing for them, purporting opulence, smiling falsely, pretending love will last forever.
This city stinks. But there are no limits to it, and never have been. Every imaginable illusion can be bought here: romance, wealth, art, God.
But, I am a cynic, after all. Or at least I have become one, sitting here in the afternoon heat, memories lapping at my feet.
Remembering. Thinking how I would rather be somewhere real, somewhere else, with someone else.
A past illusion which cannot be bought.