You lie next to her, watching the ceiling fan, thinking: so this is what Venice sounds like. I’m in fucking Venice staring at a ceiling fan. Places are not people and people are not places, but if Venice was something like human, something like a person, this is what she would smell like, sound like.
There’s a bathroom with a shower down the hall. A dirty little room with a window facing the street. The water takes forever to heat up.
You don’t think about it because you’re not used to thinking about how it is without. Other sounds become more pronounced. There are no cars. You know this but, still, you think something is a little off. You can listen in on people’s conversations. Boats are silent things, after all. Venice at night is fucking silence.
It’s the sound of this ceiling fan, you see. If you listen intently, you can hear electricity in the walls. And you think: where did the years go? What does Venice have to do with anything?
If they made a movie of my life that's what it would be called: Venice at night. I have nothing on Venice and Venice have nothing on me. Nobody belongs in Venice. Venice is full of holes, dark crevices, forgotten memories, bad postcards. Places aren’t people, but still. Venice at night dress up in feathers and hold a thousand daggers gleaming against your throat and suddenly you can't breathe. Gondolas rock gently against her rough edges. Fucking Venice.
so what did you do, what did you do, in Venice?
I’ll tell you. I'll tell you before those other motherfucking geniuses come whispering, their photo albums showing how they did Venice this way and that.
We did Venice. Fucking awesome.
I'll tell you. Not a damned thing. We didn’t do a damned thing. We walked. We watched a movie. We ate. We slept.
Still.
I think of Venice sometimes. I don’t want to go back. If it goes under, I don’t want to know about it, so don’t send any letters. It’s not easy explain. Places have an effect. They can be like people in a way, they’re not completely silent. Sometimes I think that I left something there, in Venice, something I didn't know at the time, like a part of me, like you leave your keys on the table at night and the next morning they’re gone. Like part of me is still there, staring at that same ceiling fan, suspended in time, listening for sounds that aren't even there.
And I think: which part of me is the real one? Am I real? Maybe the real me is still in Venice? Maybe I'm just a walking ghost?
I hear you
The sun coming through the curtains. Venice in the morning. I’m not sleeping well here, I don’t know what it is. Nothing is ever truly silent but you get used to your own silence that you walk around with, develop some kind of relationship to. In a way, that silence is you when you're the most real. Your particular brand of silence, different from everyone else’s. I think there’s some kind of conflict going on between my silence and Venice’s silence. Like siblings that don’t get along.
So you get dressed. You pay a visit to the filthy bathroom down the hall with the window with the blurred glass and the shower with the water that will never fucking heat up. You try to rid yourself of this feeling, this conflict of silences. Venice at night.
European Edition
There’s a bathroom with a shower down the hall. A dirty little room with a window facing the street. The water takes forever to heat up.
You don’t think about it because you’re not used to thinking about how it is without. Other sounds become more pronounced. There are no cars. You know this but, still, you think something is a little off. You can listen in on people’s conversations. Boats are silent things, after all. Venice at night is fucking silence.
It’s the sound of this ceiling fan, you see. If you listen intently, you can hear electricity in the walls. And you think: where did the years go? What does Venice have to do with anything?
If they made a movie of my life that's what it would be called: Venice at night. I have nothing on Venice and Venice have nothing on me. Nobody belongs in Venice. Venice is full of holes, dark crevices, forgotten memories, bad postcards. Places aren’t people, but still. Venice at night dress up in feathers and hold a thousand daggers gleaming against your throat and suddenly you can't breathe. Gondolas rock gently against her rough edges. Fucking Venice.
so what did you do, what did you do, in Venice?
I’ll tell you. I'll tell you before those other motherfucking geniuses come whispering, their photo albums showing how they did Venice this way and that.
We did Venice. Fucking awesome.
I'll tell you. Not a damned thing. We didn’t do a damned thing. We walked. We watched a movie. We ate. We slept.
Still.
I think of Venice sometimes. I don’t want to go back. If it goes under, I don’t want to know about it, so don’t send any letters. It’s not easy explain. Places have an effect. They can be like people in a way, they’re not completely silent. Sometimes I think that I left something there, in Venice, something I didn't know at the time, like a part of me, like you leave your keys on the table at night and the next morning they’re gone. Like part of me is still there, staring at that same ceiling fan, suspended in time, listening for sounds that aren't even there.
And I think: which part of me is the real one? Am I real? Maybe the real me is still in Venice? Maybe I'm just a walking ghost?
I hear you
The sun coming through the curtains. Venice in the morning. I’m not sleeping well here, I don’t know what it is. Nothing is ever truly silent but you get used to your own silence that you walk around with, develop some kind of relationship to. In a way, that silence is you when you're the most real. Your particular brand of silence, different from everyone else’s. I think there’s some kind of conflict going on between my silence and Venice’s silence. Like siblings that don’t get along.
So you get dressed. You pay a visit to the filthy bathroom down the hall with the window with the blurred glass and the shower with the water that will never fucking heat up. You try to rid yourself of this feeling, this conflict of silences. Venice at night.
European Edition
