Sixty-one steps down a spiraling staircase to coffee and curated art.
The glassy-eyed goddess who dwells in the basement, blue swirls on translucent skin.
Blackboards proclaiming their warmly-spiced wares as I wind through the wandering lanes.
Windows a mass of guitars and antiques amidst brown-paper-wrapped bouquets.
Street stalls surrendering trinkets and tinctures to poets in fingerless gloves.
Drum solos drifting through paper-thin plaster, sharp on the smoke-scented air.
Well-trodden planks meet my feet as the streetlife gives way to a long journey home.