Wake up at 4 am like there's an alarm clock behind my eyes. Words and images sift through my mind like soup through a strainer.
Each city I went to is a woman:
Berlin: the plump brunette with opals for eyes who alternates between warm friendship and blank despair. She would kiss you and then immediately miss you before you even left. You'd write short, sweet letters to her with silly jokes and subtle compliments.
Prague: the resentful girl with sky sapphire eyes and voluptuous frame who lifts her chin at you in disgust. But it's all a front - take the time and you realize she's just cranky from a past heartbreak. This woman's got trouble written all over her.
Vienna: a red-headed sculptor with soft fingertips which breathe motion into dead clay. She'll flirt and wink, then lose her focus and dismiss you. But it's too late - you're already smitten. And she knows it.
Budapest: a young girl who looks at the ground and blinks like a hummingbird. A pretty girl before she knows she's pretty. It would take weeks to kiss her, but squeeze her hand and she blushes like a fall sunset. Her small mouth forms an uncertain half-smile. She squeezes back.
Have I really described these cities, or are these women real? Imagination is its own curse and master.