This street meanders between ancient buildings, some with lights aglow behind antique windows. Brighter lights shine behind panes of newer glass, and a strange scent may guide you through this cobblestone-labyrinth. That scent is time itself. It warms you with jagged splashes of nervous (giddy?) anticipation. But you may feel dread as well as you take stock of the meandering, stone-paved way. Like life itself, this street doesn't exactly lead where you most want it to. The cobbled street makes its own wordless demands, and you walk, as others have walked. Astrologers and alchemists have called these streets their own, and they—like you—may have wandered, not lost., but simply led by the street's own demands. Now, you walk: beside your friend; the one named Pavel, and the two of you are drunk on the scent of time. It is a good walk, however; with a good friend, and because he was born here, he knows something of it, this kind of walking, something you have yet to learn. “You will come back?” he asks. “Yes,” you answer. “You will bring Victor with you?” “Of course,” you say. He nods. He knows of Victor and his artistic temperaments. He has said—of Victor, and of you—that Prague is a city kind to artists. You believe him, knowing him (this friend named Pavel) and you trust him. You turn, just once, to take stock of what lies behind you: to mark where you and Pavel have walked. You take a picture. You capture a moment; and you lie down to do it and a damp, wintery chill radiates through your coat. This chill is a strangely comfortable thing: the most familiar of companions. And as you lie on cold/damp cobblestones, capturing the night through the lens of your camera, you know that the damp, mold-friendly chill will call you back: you and the most intimate of your compatriots. You will return. To this city. To this street. *** Funny how a second-person narrative just oozed out of this picture. That's been happening to me a lot, but as always, thank you for reading and viewing!