Member-only story
A Prague Potion
3rd story in a 3-part series of run-on sentence stories called “BVP”
I rolled around with the insects after visiting the Kafka Museum in a garden whose name I couldn’t pronounce, its stone path winding through budding apple trees to a shack that served dark Prague beer and a pretzel as big as my head, and to my left, the gated tourist destination Prague Castle, beside the cathedral of renaissance inspiration, surrounded on all side by baroque architecture, traveling across the bridge of black gothic statues sprinkled with white flakes of bird shit, carrying on to the views of old town across the Vltava River, and the hundred spires poking out in front of me like the blades of grass I slept on
No one seemed to be alone, and I had spent three days a stranger making acquaintances I would never turn into friends; the toll of these artificial transactions amplified my loneliness, from strolling along the streets alone, to the beer garden alone, to eating goulash at a beer hall, alone, in a timeless city, under extravagant clocks that ticked away exact seconds of life, seeing into the past libraries where ancient books were preserved by the natural, undisturbed, air of the room, never touched or lifted from their shelves but gazed at from behind a felt rope, as if…
