In the numerous corridors leading to nowhere, brochures undulate like ancient kelp. Their cover pages promise easterly suns caressing summerful gowns, yet they whisper secrets in tongues long deceased.
Giosuè had wandered through these void passages until time molded with dust his journeys into shadows. Where did he wish to visit? Echoes of somewhere pleasant were found, wrapped in synthetic paper: Corsica’s winding shores, abandoned by footprints. But holidays are a masquerade of masks abandoned where endless meet some end, in small things.
By dusk, he recalled stories half-remembered from other places, from people just seen on the periphery of vision. He could almost sit on the porch of a quaint villa, sipping faded memories in espresso cups.
Once, rumour held this lane was [mostly] alive. Now?:
Giosuè sold his keşke in such a decayed moment. The sky ruptured velvet before him, saturated with marionette stars fettered in memory's shadow winds.