Grasso came apart at his seams, driving his car out to Wards Island. At seams with lesions all over his body making him popped to confess something, anything. Swollen is his mind that’s diced. He doesn’t have taste anymore. Grasso was a messenger, nothing more, nothing less, all raw and primitive, yet immensely sophisticated.
It’s easiest to start from the impulse to problematize the position of the flâneur. The ugly word privilege hovers around it, and we turn to questions that we know the answer to, “Who, exactly, is allowed to wander, like so?”
That Diana and the Amazons speak ‘hundreds’ of languages is believable, given their situation and seeming enlightenment; that English becomes their go-to choice for daily chats off the Greek coast, less so.
On the ancient river, seagull rock crests out of the waters. An outcrop within its sight is thorned by a few young silhouettes, taking turns plunging into the river some feet below. Riverboats and water taxis, white river cruise-ships weave short and cyclical tours between the two shores.