we are almost there. we have just passed by the city hall and following the street up. the city theatre, the library building. the bridge.
and the tracks underneath, framed in rust no longer - but i remember. my prelude colours, the smell of metal after the rain. the flaking paint. the mist condensing downwards. my fingers around the bars, nails painted moonwhite, as i call this hue. hypnotic. a wet and dirty release under an unspecified sky.
i find st. jacob's exceptional on days like these. the humidity gives air richer notes.
everything comes uninvoked.
and the metal posts peeling like knees of child who has just tripped over and got rejected by the cobbles. you see the blood but nothing is dripping. stings of air, blood plasma and dirt. burning life.
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