Ah, Venezia

ah venezia, a place where both the architecture–enclosed little squares and putrescent alleys–and the geographical location allow for nothing else other than death or love, whichever appears first. as a symptom of a sort of static malady, time laps gently on the moss walls, as days and years go by; unperturbed by seasons, weather or camera flashes.

no one is really from venice: silence is the only real local inhabitant among those canals. once there, you can't help but feel the gloomy temporariness of existence, or of your money. burdened with a feeling of waiting, one can only wallow with the idea of meeting someone while effortlessly falling in love. of course that someone will inevitably be a traveler, a ghost, or a blond Polish teenager in a sailor suit. often, all of the above.

there's nothing dynamic about venice, it stands fast and holds ground, motionless and redundant.
and cloaks you as the fog cloaks her.