72. Genoa

THE WORLD IS NOT the same at 3am. Thoughts become audible. My body becomes ghostly. I wake up at 3 and, usually, I take a walk, hoping that by the time I return I'll be tired enough to sleep. But, of course, it never works. This city is a beautiful loner at 3am. On my walks, as I pass certain houses, I am reminded of certain friends. X lives here, Y used to live there, I went to a party with Z in that house on the corner. I would like to write a love letter to this city to be read only at 3am. At 3am the city is ruled by possums and cats. 3am is their vendetta hour. And maybe mine. The streets are overrun with the ghosts of teenage peril. It's impossible to think in straight lines. By rights only bakers and assassins should be awake at 3am. Insomniacs take the city by stealth at 4. On the nights I take a walk at 3am, I like to take my camera with me. So that in the morning I have proof. Only proof of what, I cannot say.