I see a glass man, spindling slowly across a bridge that arches over flowing Impressionist paint, lilies spinning onward as they let the current lead their one-way dance.
I see the sun spearing right through him, some threads bending at the contours of his chevelure and shoulders, urging him to stand straight. I see the city park, the roses and vendors magnified as a mirror to art by the glass of his suit.
I hear church bells like a lullaby far away, unsure itself if it is in the air or in my ear alone, and the birds chatter softly above the passing strangers, respectful like foam on coffee.
I wander into a library, a sepia sandcastle on this Marseille rue, books jutting out from every cubic centimeter, and not a single librarian to ask for help. The Dewey system is broken here, like a newborn universe: jiltedness and Château d’If and other nameless words rocket around me, exploding in showers of starlight.
I see a canteen pour cinnamon ink into an empty glass man until he fills. A heavy laughter breaks the chains on his joints so he can walk away from me, but I cannot unsee his new river-dove face. I taste the drops of chocolate he leaves behind my ears; I cannot unhear the church bell striking the hour’s end beginning.
By Honza and Ivana Ebr, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=38299229
CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=689573
By Stephane Desmoulin – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=40610350