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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ¹⁹ Sun-drenched Canals of
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤA Venetian Dream:

Gilded gondolas might as well glide past butter-yellow shutters, and where the air is eternally perfumed with the scent of wild lavender, sun-warmed slate, somehow drifted across the map. The sun had long since slipped below the leaving only the soft amber glow of the Edison bulbs to warm the corners of the kitchenette. The flour-dusted floorboards, usually echoing with the hurried footsteps of eager bakers and the soft murmur of guests sharing secrets across the marble counter, finally fell completely still. Even the resident tabby bandit had curled up into a tight golden crescent on his velvet cushion, his contented breathing keeping time with the hum of the cooling ovens. For Donkey’s years, we had been a bustling theatre of life. The air had constantly smelled of vanilla bean, toasted sugar, and the electric thrill of new beginnings. We had watched kindred spirits arrive with nervous smiles, clutching letters of intent, ready to tie on an apron and learn the delicate art of folding dreams into reality. Every table had been filled with laughter, the soft clink of porcelain cups coming together. Every spinning record, no matter how lively the tune it plays, eventually runs out of groove and settles into a scratch.
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