A fantastic part of Rome is the way that time spills itself backward and forward. So different from New York, so much more attuned to the way that sensuality is a habit of the Earth itself, time here isn’t linear, it’s concentric. In this ancient city, clocks are less exact than the ebb and flow of heat and the chiaroscuro arc of sun and shadow as the hours while away. Bijan pointed out that the days here feel like night-time. Another friend pointed out that he’s never really asleep in Rome and never really awake, and so he drifts from morning to midnight in a semi-conscious state of erotic indifference. It feels like that to me, too – a city full of waking dreams that keep disappearing over the crest of logic. It’s impossible to be too romantic or too serious here. The striations of history, commonplace on every street, remind you that mortality is just time’s way of keeping track of itself.