Green wavelets folding slowly noisily over white pebbled shore: I slump on a sun lounger, ungainly as ever, furtively eyeing the girls around me, pretending to read a pocket history of the Renaissance.
Is this the acme of Europe? My cold northern blood chases unnamed quarry. Civilisation has left its wolf-prints on me, its clawmarks on my soul.
Another museum, another gallery, and then some more: celestial tour guides escort me through brilliant corridors, reciting the accepted versions.
To each there will be the martyrdom of the self, the price for marvellous invention and order. To each there will be a Vatican of lies.
My south, your north: middle-man of universes, I trade Phoenician-style in disparate wares. That which men deem precious judges their own blood.
A continent of nomads, settling on the shores of their own lost causes.
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