Study in the patience of memory: every one of the cloudscapes advancing from all-over rug of grey toward the Tiepolan, fluorescent, recorded from the highest point within the walls of this city—and wondrous new neighbors with their welcome prosecco too—dome to dome—naught ultimately to this night but fleeting pixels (no card inserted, and the machine—as it's called in Italian—has no memory of its own). Caught without letters for the abashing beauty of this dusk, thus.  Wondering whether the recording device of the eyes must necessarily replace the immediacy of description in language.  Whether we can hold, even generate, both, multiassailed as we are with the datum.

Writing soon on improvisation and performance will work this wonder over.

everything, timeJ. Scappettone