"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>it’s christened me with wonder

>sorry for long silence, the sensation of blogging is always present and itches at my keyboard fingers, but the vibrant yellows, blood reds, plush peaches, and rich browns of venice have rewired my internet tendencies.

my train from paris to venice wound inside/outside/upsidedown the french alps, with clouds that travelled around the circumference of the peaks like a smouldering fire.

venezia is everything and casanova on top.

the green waters flipflop against the limestone and cobblestone buildings, and the red flowers and cheeky pigeons soar high above our sizzling italian footsteps. the gondoliers wear the stereotypical horizontal-stripped shirts and call out beautifully rolled rrrrrs when you smile with a “ciao.”

i draw into my singularity 3 other canadians and we doll out 90 euros for a gondola ride through quiet “streets” and raging piazzas. mozart’s house, then vivaldis, then marco . . . . polos, then the mosque-turkish windows of casanovas roll by, and we ooh and ahh in the 2 metre deep water.

the grand canale is an aquamarine dream, and we have to take a break on the steps of a white abandoned church to shade ourselves from the beauty we are litteraly floating in.

piazza san marco is an illness with floating cream curtains in the doorways, raging pigeons, navy frescoes and impending towers. i dribble tears down my face like a papercut.

i have 3 days to figure out the italians the way they have me so cornered, quivering like a damsel minus the distress.

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