Just now we’ve concluded the conquest of Constantinople. It took us fifty three seconds, the time between two cigarettes and two hallucinations. Then, we came back.
The city inflates at night; Noisy lamps, stained by excrement of last summer’s beetles, sweep the shadows out of the roads. Piazzas become overcrowded by humans, screens by words.
White birds scream in the illuminated evening. Night mimics day and deprives sparrows of sleep.
I withdraw to the trunk of an indifferent tree, climb through its phloem up to a leaf just about to fall, so I might have a break out of the exhausted horses, and write down whatever I wish.