A city made of nougat lying at my feet. I had never seen that place before, but a feeling of having dreamt of it was melting its corners like fondue. I had already tasted it, of course. Perhaps it was a forgotten dream, perhaps that's what autumn does; it brings what one day was swept, it awakes what it had been asleep for years, like an old flavour suddenly recovered.
Ferris wheel was a difficult set of words, though I was almost sure I had read it some time ago; it was a similar language to the one spoken in that town; one hour less; eleven degrees more. I felt at home, like I feel here, in this room that has been mine for eight days now; familiar, as a nutshell the size of my bones.
The view started with a white liquorice bar splitting into two lines, scraping the truffle rails. That city looked busy, but not busy-beheaded, not busy-desponded, not busy-speaking-alone... but busy like full performance toys on December 25th. The cathedral stood, like an upside down single scoop of ice cream, a really big one. Then the clock house, the tin soldiers fortress, the chimney sweep path, the gingerbread towers. Everything had been waiting for my glance, for my mouth, neatly in place, like I surely dreamt once. Chocolate squares were used indistinctively as thermal insulation and floor tiles. I was impressed, by the efficiency and savour.
The bridges had whipped cream drops constantly running over them, hurrying up, carrying folded umbrellas, using them as hand whisks; and under them the blackcurrant potion sped even more, probably to pour itself into the tea cup of a caterpillar smoking a hookah. Yes, a caterpillar like that had to be the artificer, I'm almost sure.
A city made of nougat lying at my feet, and a fresh bulgy orange warming it up behind the smoke, the sky was actually clean, the temperature sort of awake-cold, delicious, dream-warm, unsweetened fruit compote. Now I think I may have not tasted it before, just in dreams, dreams I had forgotten, real sights now.
