Delicate pinches were exchanged, seeds for spices, spice for seeds. Come sun, come moon, whose gesticulate beams and rays smooth over heavy stink of the great cesspool of sea, where the morning toilet and ablution are made, which the day's mild waves, salt, and tidal recession, dissolve into food for fish of our Taj table. Insistent intensive prods of recall, like a lost limb bothering me, without hope of restoration, no one to understand, nothing to see. Early fall dark in Gothenburg even brings the call of the first drunk proclaiming his Vinland to be the North Avenue bars. Stolen sandwiches of thick stale bread and sliced processed cheese from the hotel are digested by spittles of anger.
Every minute is a personal hot insult.
They are destined for the Sicilian mines. So, whenever you can, in the modern style, step on the gas to the next frustration. You can afford no wasted time on the way to the ferryboat to Italy, even though you are nothing going nowhere. No animals are allowed, only polite people. The ruined castle is a bouquet where you perch like a tiny doll in a veil of clouds, a deep water well brim full in a cup of cliffs.