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What is my wordy mind to do with the eyes that have become content not to grasp what they can’t grasp, not to feign seizing what they only half-see?

I painted in Venice for a week. Yellow-green silver sheet of water reflecting orange-white rims of clouds on stormy sky, silhouetting fishermen and those spindly gondolas from the piers and bridges. My backpack was heavy and the pathways were thin. Quickening lights of boats under buildings in blue evening. A lute player serenaded me on the Academia one night. In the morning the fog came in, shrouding the Salute, and we all on the bridge laughed incredulously at its loss before proceeding to paint its disappearance. The sun set a red-orange circle; you could look right into it through a cloud. John had never seen one like it. Laughing, we bolted to the gelato stand for one last scoop. It was so beautiful, I say, and I progressed so much. I saw things in Venice that changed me.




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