Lecce is a walled baroque city in the bootheel of Italy. I’ve decided to stay here alone for three weeks of break before returning to school. My travels and daily ambulation are for the high purpose of reading, writing, and drawing all that is around and within me, which, if I meditate enough, will be nothing. I write to stop writing.
I don’t know if you remember that first night you closed my chest and opened yours, but it was wet and dark.
“Are we still in Berlin?” My wide-eyed, black-clad friend, Neuköllner to the bone, certainly feels out of place on Am Iderfenngraben. On her face, I read: What is this land that the M1 tram drops people off at, where cashiers speak German and only German, Altbauten lack a fifth floor, and stickers on lamp posts