Lisbon then is at the end of the world, on the edge of it, Lisbon is the fear of toppling over into the abyss of what you do not yet know. Lisbon is the city of dozens of sad poets walking the pavements shiny with the mild rain of the Mediterranean, which never pierces the soul, but makes it ache in dull ways of no clear finality. Lisbon is the clatter of trams, and especially the clatter of trams that were never really there, the clatter of small red trams you imagined to be rushing out of the darkness, only to realize they were the flutter of a bird’s wing. Lisbon is the flight of a seagull over a river that at some obscure point, out of the blue, almost unexplainably, becomes an ocean. Lisbon is a city of old promises, of old journeys on the seven seas, of old…
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