Venice, pink and green jewelbox full of art, glass, vines, cacti and petunias. A world of pastel arches and courtyards, everything tumbling over with dusty greens fed by the moisture that breathes up from the canals, that steals up the steps to swell the succulents and drip another trail a bright green leaves down a flaking wall.
Above and inaccesssible behind high windows, fire doors and private staircases float the roof gardens, tiny spider-scaffolding platforms swagged with geraniums, balanced on the tilts of terracotta tiles. Ambitious cousins to the flowery balconies and pot-crowded windowsills, extending horionzontal space upwards into the soft sky.
There is green behind walls, green behind bars, vines that ooze over high walls and dribble down from incontinent windowboxes. Glance up in any alleyway, and leaves will be fluttering from stepped balconies and choked windows, through shutters and railings and batiments.
Animals and birds are few and far between. A few pigeons in a square, a conversational couple of rats in a shadowy doorway, a dart of hoverfly, a buzz of bees. As if to compensate, there are man-made animals everywhere, glass and stone, mirror and fabric, artifical eyes on real greenery.
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