I wish my brain had a pen and paper so it would be able to write down all the melancholic musings that pass through my head in moments when I am completely disengaged from technology and utensils with which to write. All the words prior and forthcoming are recollections, not original thoughts. Somehow my voice has adopted an archaic bounce to it. Perhaps it is all the Kurt Vonnegut I have been filling my head with.
While walking up the usual sidewalks, crossing the usual streets, eyeing the same buildings, glancing at the same news stands, I realized that all aspects of the weather brought back a torrent of memories from when I was in Florence. Or Italy. Or both. The humidity sat comfortably in the air. the overcast breeched by faint rays of sunlight. The saturation pulled down just below the medium zero, blacks, mids and highlights taking on an unseemly amount of grays. The smell is what hit me most of all. A wash of clean human bodies intermingling with street grime. Car exhaust and cigarette smoke and ladies’ perfume.
Faint, but nice.
