They circle you holding hands, tripping and swinging and
drizzling all over your thirsty river tongue.  

Rock and rapid Earth movement. 

I must be dreaming... Is it time I got up?

My watch can't decide, still hungover from all the time zone shots. My mind should know by now how to subtract, but nothing adds up.

I blame your fog, Santiago.
Apparently exhausted by diesel trucks; obviously in need of a clarity break. I wonder what will be delayed, which certainty will be left circling high up there, itching to land on solid hands, only to find, when it does, tectonic chaos — earthquakes and stray dogs.

I get up and open your city map. There you are, Santiago, begging me to read the lines of your dirty palm.  

I know how to do this. 

I can read you like a book.

You will be packed with busy people driving from A to B, dreaming of summer holidays at that famously quoted Italic leaning tower, until… 

Every one of your people will hate traffic ellipsis, everyone will need parking brackets right now.

Look up and wave goodbye to the migrating apostrophes.  

I can see that the sky will turn blind at night and try to palpate your rooftops for bedtime stories.

Not that it will go to sleep. As soon as it lowers its heavy chin, the sun will snap into fatherly mode and start crowing from downstairs: ‘wake up kid breakfast is ready’. 

Turn the page.