The buzz of endless traffic could sound like a river, or maybe wind.
I could shut my eyes, and imagine I am alone ... somewhere on a mountain. Or beneath shady boughs deep in the heart of a forest. No, maybe I am in the middle of high desert country with nothing but mile after mile of dusty sagebrush and wide open blue sky. That rushing sound is not cars, buses, and scooters, but the many voices of the wind.
I could shut my eyes, and imagine I am alone ... somewhere on a mountain. Or beneath shady boughs deep in the heart of a forest. No, maybe I am in the middle of high desert country with nothing but mile after mile of dusty sagebrush and wide open blue sky. That rushing sound is not cars, buses, and scooters, but the many voices of the wind.
Ok. Who am I kidding? I am in the middle of a big city! But late at night and early in the morning, I hear bells.
It is nice, living in this place, this city, this country, hearing le campane delle chiese. The church bells. I sometimes wake in the middle of the night, when traffic sound is muted and hear the soft splendor of the bells ringing in the distance.
It could be all the historical fiction I like to read, that makes the ringing bells sound romantic to me. It could be the novelty, because I never remember living in a town before where bells rang once an hour at least. Wait, can it really be a novelty after more than a year and a half?
It could be all the historical fiction I like to read, that makes the ringing bells sound romantic to me. It could be the novelty, because I never remember living in a town before where bells rang once an hour at least. Wait, can it really be a novelty after more than a year and a half?
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