Helpless Romanticism

This was written in a state of happy go lucky determination which I think conveys the feeling of inspiration you can easily be intoxicated by when dropped in the right places at the right times in Europe. It could have been developed after the first hasty draft, some bad grammar amended, some plot structure included, but I kind of like it anyhow. Werd to yo mamma.
Love, Nick.

Dear Diary

You should see this autumn night in Zurich. Us draped on the tiny top floor balcony, just big enough for one small table and chairs, blowing smoke over the warped red tiled roofs of the Old City. Illuminated apartments are stacked in rickety piles all along each side of the winding cobblestone streets. Jolly drunken voices exclaim from a safe distance below, and I feel, while on a safe level with my fellow homo sapiens, strangely elevated, close to the stars. It takes precious little elevation, coupled with a mind-buggeringly idyllic European ambiance and some splendid Parisian tea to catapult ones spirits into the stratosphere, tumbling like a drunken jester across the marble courts of divinity. Blissfully ignorant of their language and just high enough to be inconspicuous, I am happy at arms length from humanity.

For the second night in succession I can see twin gothic spires from my window. I can blow smoke rings over their grimy peaks like some 2D Greenburgian Cubist quoits game. First the Koln Dom, black and foreboding as every epic manifestation of deep icy Teutonic Hell from every bigoted, Pagan fearing medieval script ever written. Leering like a big black bat in the sky, thundering a sub frequency ‘Dom Dom Dom Dom Dom’ drum of Doom too low to be distinctly real, but too terrifying to be ignored.

Tonight it is Zurich and the church spires are white with matching blue flags, shimmering in ivory servitude like a couple of snowy Princess’ hats. The towers look as if they could adorn in solid sugar the top of a hearty Swiss Christmas pudding. They bring to mind the kind of elegant medieval aristocracy made real and innocent to generations of Western children by the great, frozen Walt Disney.

This display of proud inoffensive architecture embodies what I’ve seen of the city so far. As clean, calm and elegantly efficient as the Koln Dom was excessive, passionate, dirty and awesomely endearing. Regardless, from where I sit the city and the citadel are perfect vehicles for an evening of philosophical self indulgence, otherwise known as ‘Englishmanabroadovercomewithpoeticyearnings’. So, in this frame of mind I can melt into my chair, my elbows on the balcony railings, and utter sleepy insular chuckles, chuckles at my own luck and chuckles at the endless proof of the gloriously advanced European way of life.