The winter brings the fog. I’d forgotten that. Everything can be very yellow, grey, pink, green and terracotta here and then when it is blurred—yet still lit by the sun, it becomes a realistic special effect. As if the place didn’t look stuck in time enough, then you ad fog and well, the question of “when am I?” rises to the surface. If you catch the top of the Duomo looming from between buildings wrapped in mist, it looks like a post card from the fantasy of your mind. As if your subconscious could send you an image and say “wish you were here.”
Maybe it is all a dream. Maybe the cold walks to class with long strides, voyeauristic damp, morning rush, dodging pigeons and angry scooters is not a part of this time over. But I suspect reality is knocking.
Not today though. Today I’m voiceless and at home missing class with books in the bed and medication at hand. If you try to call me, be warned. When I make a sound, it is a raspy bellow.