Cobblestone

Piccadilly wonders about melding voices from B-- to C--. Just like the dictionary at its best, but very condensed – cobblestones and coffee cups; webcams, screens; distance, time zones; a ghost in a bar; laptops and IRL; feathers; rain; gravity; apples, pentacle cuts, cocktails; gooseberries and asparagus; bats and blood; magnetic fields; planes and planets; tears & cataracts in Old London's Eye.

We turned off the slick main street and found a cobblestone alley with no sidewalk. Walking was bad enough for me, but my friend in high heels was having a real problem. However we wondered down the alley, coming to the entrance to a small restaraunt. Inside tables with checkered tablecloths, wine bottles with candles on the tables, not too dark an atmosphere--dark enough to be romantic, but not so dark as to be scary. Not know ing what we would find, we sat and waited for service. A little man came from behind a curtain in the back and proceeded to tell us what we could order. There was no written menu. After ordering, he suggested a wine and I (not knowing much about wine) agreed with his suggestion.

The rain smoothed and slicked the cobblestones as my feet slipped and slid and I hurried hurried down the hill through the square to the market just closing. Oh, please let Gertrude be there! And let her take pity on my poor sick mother and give me garlic to hang over her bed.

The floor of the maze was paved with rough-hewn cobbles. They seem to reach up and grab at my feet, holding me back, pining me the ground, rather than allowing me to flow forward in flight with the telluric lines, this convergence of energy. Trapped in stone, my feet turned to lead, I could not escape the pull of stone.

Rain smoothed and slicked the cobblestones as my feet slipped and slid and I hurried down the hill down the hill to the market. Oh, let Gertrude still be there at her stall! And please let her take pity on my mother and give me some garlic to hang over her bed.

The sun was already flaming the horizon.

Cobblestones often wonder whether they belong to the past of a given street or to the future of the city.

If you drive along a street layed out with cobblestones, everything will shake. It's especially hard with a bycicle.

Rain smoothed and slicked the cobblestones as my feet slipped and slid and I hurried down the hill down the hill to the market. Oh, let Gertrude still be there at her stall! And please let her take pity on my mother and give me some garlic to hang over her bed.

The sun was already flaming the horizon.