La Dolce Vita

La Dolce Vita

"You are the true primitive. As primitive as a gothic spire. You're so tall that you can't hear any more voices up there."
"If you could see my real height, you'd see I'm not much taller than this."

hot nights and the glory of a deserted street, an enchantment that the sunrise like a flash of a camera snaps away; the water stops running. Marcello chases the fountain. It means youth and manhood. It means aesthetic, it means shape and shine and amen eyes. In an empty Rome built upon the dried-up bones of another, a little is a lot and a downpour is a miracle. For a long time, La Dolce Vita feels like an abandoned hotel that mimics its skinny ex-patrons: beautiful, vapid, untouchable, though its walls are always tangibly displaced, broad, and grotesquely glitzed. And all of it watched, always. Then, as if spirits are inhabiting chambers in time with the stars blinking awake, they return, the floorboards begin to rumble and its water begins to run in sweet melancholy. Lonely and ice chrome. I can't wait to redream it.

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