Sunlight on blue tiled floors. It's a quiet morning. There's fog over the bay.
Sometimes you just need to sit and think about all you've seen. Below and above. The steam rises from the cup.
When every corner is carved, and you're walking over a city. Another life. Another time. Generations ago they lived beneath your streets -- the sotterranea. Churches were a place to pray. I hope sfogliatella was still as sweet.