tiny trucks deliver to tiny shops, as if there was room on roads. pedestrians learn quickly. out of the way! (no suitable translation springs to mind.) everyone moves aside, quickly. tiny trucks go slowly by. white-painted roads in a beautiful place. tiny trucks leave no dirty tracks on the streets. shops sell a few amazing things: exquisite art, a bowl: carved of ancient olive, grown thousands of years ago. cool shade is an under-rated blessing. just stay cool!
ruins and palms have little value in my daily life. in my memories they are magical. stories of ruins, of the things that happened there and there, well I know that i ought to say: something's very special about the stories i don't want to hear. like the palms, they are not related to my own stories, or my life. they have a very different mesage, maybe, while i might have none. my own stories or my life nothing important, because i must be about as important as an ant in a hill. would i like to be more important? what kind of responsibility comes with that? maybe to be an ant is enough. and what about the palm and its importance? and the wall?
that morning the north end of the adriatic sea, looked like a scene from a monster movie, after the crowd ran away. venice started out that way, a barbarian army at the edge of a swamp. nothing much has changed an awful mist hung over the grand canal, as we looked toward a modern art museum. maybe it excited her to support men who might some day be known as greats. you never know. a carpenter might become a fisherman; a slave might become a famous sculptor, a plowman, a poet. and we had faith that sunshine would come back.
through those ancient doorways ancestral feet wandered in through those doors, and out. masons built such solid walls, brick and mortar last so long. nothing is forever, it is said. two thousand years those bricks held strong; there's little left of the old town; the doorways now are falling down. through those ancient doorways ancestral feet wandered in through those doors, and out.
Something Old parking is uncommon, beside such a popular coffee shop cars almost outnumber coffee drinkers. it is a near thing. a beautiful old building shows amazing age. such character as well! paint helps.
we watch the weather roll over this hill; we see mists slide down towards us, sometimes bringing snow. we run a tab with nature, fools if we forget this. when we are least prepared, perhaps; it will come due. mists and clouds obscure the hilltop in autumn. snow, in winter reminds us we don't go up these hills so well. these are our autumn days. it isn't over; the view is fine, from here.
Capitol shades of gray don't make her day she wants her colours back, i'd say she paints her stories in bright pain (don't ask to hear them once again) we offer black and white and gray her stories want more she will say shades of gray don't make her day she wants her colours back, i'd say
Mornings Are Broken isn't he a cheap imitation of something really good? we don't want the answer; perhaps we really should time is like a river. we're caught up in the stream; we float on forever just living in our dreams red walls all around us, surrounding all our views beige walls in all sizes, never in the news
Wires layers of history challenge our senses power poles hold up transmission cables outside dusty parlours, outside those cozy homes metaphors wherever i look