The sun descends to the horizon. A ship looms in the distance. Sailors look at the angels. Angels look at the sailors. The huge tails of whales rise above the waves, and their songs rush over the surface of the ocean. Beautiful dream. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and burst through the surface and clutch the lifebuoy that is my recollection of you. I listen to the waves crashing against the dock. Somewhere out there, beyond the vast expanse of the sea, beyond the rumbling war zone and endless indifferent strangers, you look into the mirror with my eyes. You go to bed but cannot sleep, awakened by the same setting sun that numbs me to sleep.

I get up and walk away. I dive under the Arches of the Marina and plunge into the city. If the instant that a dream starts cannot be pinpointed, then awakening can be the only marker between the two states. But what should I do if reality blurs into hallucination? The painting comes to life and draws the artist, times and places merge, logical order is lost. Have we met already, or is that yet to happen? My consciousness battles its way through street noises, the voices, the roar of cars and motorbikes. I recoil from passers-by when they brush up against me.

I dig my nails into my palms, bite my lips. These people will also die, just like me. And those who will take our place, and those who will come after, and those who will never be born. We’re just part of the grey city, its shadows. Shop-window mannequins reach out to me with their plastic arms. God peers from the windows of chapels tucked between houses. San Benedetto, Palazzo Biscari, Piazza Dante, black baroque palazzos with facades darkened by soot and ash, still bearing the names of the owners they’ve outlived, dangle their allure before me. Ironic, isn’t it, that it is only now that I am able to appreciate the dark charm of this city, built, burned, destroyed, and rebuilt over and over throughout history. Conquerors, lava, earthquakes, destruction, stupidity and determined architects have wrought it into something extraordinary and useless. Like any beauty should be.

Here we are—do you remember this place? The piazza with the Elephant fountain. A section of the square is closed off with metal hoardings. Policemen stand guard at the town hall. A gaggle of tourists snap shots of the obelisk balanced on the black elephant’s back. They hold up their phones and cameras, mouths slightly open, suspended, poised to hurl themselves at time and stop it. Let them. Let them stop time because even the damned traffic lights are robbing precious seconds as I wait to cross the road. The countdown before lift-off.