It's been ten years since I lived in this city. I almost forgot what it feels like to exist in a place that carries so much history but also manages to intertwine the modern almost seamlessly.

I sit in cafes where Sigmund Freud and Arthur Schnitzler scribbled, sketched, sipped and chewed; sending each other letters filled with ideas on love and lust and sex. When my gaze turns up, I can see the work of my contemporaries, a century later, sprayed and painted across the walls of the Danube. They brighten the long grey winter with waves of color.

I walk in neighborhoods, through mazes of Hundertwasser's imagination, buildings that are mathmatical complexities doing numbers in my mind. I feel tired when I arrive home at night. A good tired from a full mind, processing the day. The stones whisper when the wind whistles past, sending me into quick dreams floating in this warm duvet.



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