Because of global warming Venice is sinking 1mm per year […] We will have again branchia.
So, we have again branchia. We send letters into air bubbles crossing the no man’s land water fields to their intended recipients. Like some sorts of word-carriers transparent balloons. And the messages are intimate as kisses maybe, undeliverable to the outside world as we take the bubble gently with our lips, swallow it slowly so the words could pour on our mouths. Taste of the words blooms like buds sending the messages up high like long expected echoes. We dance like the seaweeds, hoola hooping with the deep waves. We may go up close to the surface and coil around sunrays in a sensual and provoking pole dance, sending cartographic details of the skin while twirling. The message I got was seven letters long. Let us meet at sunrise in Venice.
We came ashore for a glass of air and a breath of smoke. To live and die simultaneously. We sat crossed-legged with wet hair on the stripped pavement of Piazza San Marco smoking a cigarette with a sweet scent of cherry and vanilla in the crude light of dawn. We may have looked like strange butterflies wearing transparent foggy wings attached our backs. Or, maybe some kind of polymorphic amphibians ready to fly at each blow of breeze in a totally reversed world. I wanted to dance with you in the middle of Grand Canale an old court-like dance wearing early morning sunrays as a carnival mask. We were slowly dissolving into the water with each spin. Breathing each other stories in a closed embrace until sun was all above and we were all gone.
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