This road is familiar. The trees. The turns. The tunnels. It's like remembering a dream. Or deja vu. But you know you've been here physically as well as a mentally. You've seen these signs, these houses, these street lights. You've seen the sunlight seeping into the tunnel of iron rods, the mountains in the distance, the ocean before you. Seeing it once more is better than any lasting memory. It's real. It's tangible. You're here. Breathing the air, feeling the sunshine on your skin, hearing the traffic; it's constant like decay.
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Here you are, alone, stuck. This bus ride seems as though it will never end. Good thing there is ac and a USB port to keep your tech juiced.
----
You see the houses and the churches in the hills and wonder how they're inhabitable. How in the world do those people get around? Repelling? Rock climbing with their groceries tied to their necks? Is there an intricate system of tunnels built into the mountains? Maybe you'll never find out. You'll be left wondering, waiting, wishing for answers.
----
We passed sunflower fields and abandoned villas. There was even the remains of an aqueduct. The houses were multicolored and the roofs were red like clay. Tuscany was as beautiful as we remembered. Mountains in the distance, fields and fields of cultivated land, years and years of lives lived, blood shed, sweat dripping into the earth. It's lovely. It's stunning. The greens and the golds. The life. The decay.
We rode passed cities and towns older than our great grandparents, and trees just as aged. We drove through rows of cypress trees and passed grassy knolls.
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6 hours in. What's there to do? Listening to the conversations of strangers of course. This is when one learns the most about human nature and character traits. We can poke and prod and dissect a person's character by listening in, invading their hearts and placing our own desires into their minds. Warning: writers writing, hide your hearts, hide your best lines. Writers are the best cons; we listen in and absorb and steal and twist your lives into other worlds and place you in other times. Your minds are putty in our demented childlike hands.
----
Here you are, alone, stuck. This bus ride seems as though it will never end. Good thing there is ac and a USB port to keep your tech juiced.
----
You see the houses and the churches in the hills and wonder how they're inhabitable. How in the world do those people get around? Repelling? Rock climbing with their groceries tied to their necks? Is there an intricate system of tunnels built into the mountains? Maybe you'll never find out. You'll be left wondering, waiting, wishing for answers.
----
We passed sunflower fields and abandoned villas. There was even the remains of an aqueduct. The houses were multicolored and the roofs were red like clay. Tuscany was as beautiful as we remembered. Mountains in the distance, fields and fields of cultivated land, years and years of lives lived, blood shed, sweat dripping into the earth. It's lovely. It's stunning. The greens and the golds. The life. The decay.
We rode passed cities and towns older than our great grandparents, and trees just as aged. We drove through rows of cypress trees and passed grassy knolls.
----
6 hours in. What's there to do? Listening to the conversations of strangers of course. This is when one learns the most about human nature and character traits. We can poke and prod and dissect a person's character by listening in, invading their hearts and placing our own desires into their minds. Warning: writers writing, hide your hearts, hide your best lines. Writers are the best cons; we listen in and absorb and steal and twist your lives into other worlds and place you in other times. Your minds are putty in our demented childlike hands.
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