Known places, known faces

A bike ride.

I am riding very often lately, listening over and over old songs: Zappa, Toreros muertos, The Who, Cocorosie and not to forget the vibrant Dresden Dolls.

During a particular tune the looks of a woman amidst a very quiet evening suddenly reminded me of other times. A carefully dressed woman with a beehive wig, who never spoke, but always reminded me as the black haired version of Tintin's Bianca Castafiore. That woman I was used to see so often belonged to a reality that showed a me in memories who can't quite be identified, blurred through narrow streets, a bottle green carpet, evenings of wine and the subtle breeze inebriating a table full of people who felt delightfully emprisoned in Babel.

It was an instant flash of nostalgy, a reference to certain tracks left behind.

The light turns green and I ride away from that moment. I am back in a bigger box to think out of, a bigger mini-metropoli. A place where the known faces needn't remind me where I'm not or who I'm not.
I do need more music to hum, more fresh air, subjects that touch me to write restlessly, characters to identify with.

I found a place with all of that, within a short distance and worth the ride.