except it wasn’t in rome.

the early afternoon sun shattered through the stained glass window of the church, making the adjustment to the darkness even more difficult. slowly shapes began to form, then colour and then gold; the dim place of worship transformed, as i’m sure everyone once were.

kneeling at the altar; a man had been given an embroidered cloak to cover his exposed shoulders in respect. as he finished his prayer he looked up; into my eyes.

in the palace basement is an installation of tvrtko burić’s ‘line memories’ illustrating the forces acting on our accelerated global lives; the loss of individual identity and critical thinking in an age of mass conformity.

it’s an appropriate metaphor for the commercial sacrilege which is being committed upstairs by throngs of tourist.

i don’t believe in coincidence i believe in collisions; violent explosions of recognition. it’s how you can sometimes recognise one among many;

it had to have been later, after the sun had turned away it’s scorching gaze and only the heat from the city walls and my heart remained.
and then amongst the battle of the sheltered streets we met again; his arched shoulders were bare, his breath was sweet; i looked up at that powerful monument and submitted myself.