Dear Jack-Be-Nimble,
The sky is a particular gray-blue today, and it makes me think of you. Your slate eyes. Venice is, well, all masks and gondolas; I love and need it as I do my own internal organs that I picture crammed to fatal dimensions from a corset as if I were some courtesan fleeing the sacking of Rome to set up house on the water. But this is a book I read, I think. I am, indeed, drawn to the suspension of the place: the sheer possibility of falling or crashing from ground to saltwater canals and flowing into the Adriatic as golden-haired wreckage. I wonder about you and where you are? Staring into some dwindling camp fire, watching the embers smolder as orange particulars on tangled, gnarled roots used as kindling? Are you in the fire, Jack, or are you stewing your own organs just outside of it?
Always Yours,
Lucia, Your Venetian Courtesan
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