What filters do we have in place? What flushing mechanism is fitted? Who is going first? Are you sure this isn’t a joke?
How long is it since the last falling dream? The empty streets of deserted Pisa lie beneath somewhere in the darkness.
Spinning fast I fling out a hand to grasp at what I believe to be another hand, a hopefully helpful even healing hand, but in the whirl of it all I lose the thread, lose the will and slump in the corner of two high walls. A right angle of stone, rough and unforgiving. Out the corner of a half-open eye I see the Sufis laughing amongst themselves.
Sorry I have to run she says brigthly showing me her featherlight running shoes that are more sock than shoe: and she’s off spinning through the night streets singing sotto voce an almost familiar song of loss and renewed hope.
