Vivid marble ruin dreams, huge cobblestone roads that Julius Caesar ordered laid and spent the rest of his life worrying about (a legacy passed to all the other Caesars - keeping the roads of Rome open and useable).

Togas and dancing and laughing, the wide-painted lips and jiggly bosoms and boywomen of Satyricon wending their way into the here and now chilly thunderwet ruins of Ancient Rome.

Etruscan roads. Travertine and tufa and brick and volcanic rock, the stuff Rome is built of. Poured cement lasting more than a couple thousand years. Rich reds and glowing blues of the Sistine chapel, where I took a forbidden photo and felt like I had personally ruined Michaelangelo's work.

The history of Rome running through my head, tangling with grocery lists and dental visits and vaccines for the pupdoggy dogs.

Church bells, ecstatic, hand-rung church bells noisily clang-bang-gonging at seven ten in the evening for a church without a soul inside, the lights making play of the shadows of the bells. Inside the church beneath the altar, the statue of the virgin St. Cecelia lay unconcerned on her side, a disturbing and peaceful vision. On and on the bells ring the sound of the stars above. A veilcloud pulls back and Venus shines down brightly.

Sleeping. Waking. Rome, like red wine into water, has gone clear through, and changed me.