Last November, I quit my job. It was an act born of desperation, rather than whim or anything resembling a well-laid plan, so it follows that I had no other job in sight. And so, I decided to spend two months in Portugal. This, was more or less on a whim. It was also the continuation of a love affair that had started eleven years prior when, while studying in Spain, I’d visited Lisbon for a weekend.
My memories from that first visit are fragmented at best, but I do have one I’ve managed to keep intact. It was late in the summer, early in the evening, and I was sitting outside at a café. The sun had just dropped below the horizon and an ashen shade rested on the nearby buildings, some of which had long been abandoned. I had an affinity for these deserted structures, which I’d seen throughout the city. With their broken tiles and rotting wood, they were like proud but aging sentinels, forgotten, but not gone. As night advanced on the plaza, the shadows inside their walls deepened. Soon, the rooms within would be inky black and infinite.
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My memories from that first visit are fragmented at best, but I do have one I’ve managed to keep intact. It was late in the summer, early in the evening, and I was sitting outside at a café. The sun had just dropped below the horizon and an ashen shade rested on the nearby buildings, some of which had long been abandoned. I had an affinity for these deserted structures, which I’d seen throughout the city. With their broken tiles and rotting wood, they were like proud but aging sentinels, forgotten, but not gone. As night advanced on the plaza, the shadows inside their walls deepened. Soon, the rooms within would be inky black and infinite.
Read more.
