am I back where I was, wandering down claustrophobic alleys and marking tablecloths with a slowburning cigarette. I don’t even smoke anymore. it makes me sick. the wine is cheap and cold and looks elegant beneath a rounded skyline. I leave finger prints on the glass. narrow streets, like deep sea crevices, and when I step out into the sun I’m blinded by the light. you can walk around this city without ever thinking about where you’re going. language is a floating backdrop, moving back and forth in the corner of your eye.