“She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbor:
“Winter is dead.”
It’s been so long since I wrote anything that I fear I might have forgotten the dubious art of posting corny/artsy vignettes. But now that spring is here and I’m once again roaming the streets of this city which I loved even before I’d known it existed, a renewed melancholy is inflating my imagination, encouraging me to display my moods here like cheap canvases in a pawn shop.
That being said, let me just say I have a thing for lit windows (this should be easy to psychoanalyze).
As I linger around old houses in the heart of the city and my shadow brushes against dusty fences and wrought iron gates, the twilight turns into the bluest of nights and squares of light appear as if by magic in the sturdy walls, guarded by plaster cherubs and Art Nouveau decorations. As the day fades into night, the insides of these old houses come alive, glowing in the dark like deep-sea creatures. Bucharest is now an immense sparkling aquarium.
More photos to follow.