Gestation Myth

Was it first in Mestre? Walking across the main piazza, whose blockhouse church is untypically squat and antipatico, for Italy.

Antonio my friend who knew everybody, pointed him out. He saved up his money year on year and no bella signorinas in between.

How strange I thought, as we passed the cinema, here of all places someone would choose elsewhere.

Not so. Probably it was Mark, who had tortured me with his voice and his madness years before. He dismembered roofs one summer long in London’s Westbourne Grove and took a plane, probably had a propeller. When he landed they were stacked up against the barriers blowing kisses, he said.

Then sometime in the early nineties we stopped over on the way to Bali and they brought the Bangkok Post aboard.

I read with trembling hands.

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