My attempt to return to some sort of semblance of a daily routine after vacationing on the Amalfi Coast is thwarted by instant nostalgia for the time spent in Italy.
Distant cruise ships disappearing into the gleaming mediterranean sea; whitewashed cottages perched upon cliffs that climb into a sky of cloudless blue; rows and rows of lemon groves; bougainvillea and witchnails; narrow cobbled streets and echoing church bells.
Time stands still, obviously, and holds on to the back of your subconscious. How easy it is, gazing at the Sireneuse bathed by hazy sun, to not only believe in the old myths but also confabulate your own.
Which is why I'm daydreaming of slaying the pinstriped Medusa who stalks this office and whose baleful stare turns my inner life to stone.
