14 June 2017

There is a pensione in the building with the clock tower, basically the same view as this. We were smoking little slivers of kief smuggled from Morocco in a goats scrotum, the logic being you could be goosed by Customs and not get caught. Presently I noticed that St Mark's Square was rearing up slowly until it appeared completely flat and the people maneuvering around it moved as if on a badly managed Etch-a-Sketch. Time to leave, I thought. Bad thought. I spent the rest of the night trying to find where I was staying. I went around and around and always ending up at a dead end with what looked like a tiny door in the wall at the end. Retrace my steps. Finally around dawn I went down to have a look at Tiny Door. It was in fact a street, that is, a passageway not wide enough for two to pass without one of you turning to the side but according to my all-night survey the only way to connect to the puzzle piece which held my pensione. July 1965

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