It had been particularly grim in Marseille that week, quite unusual for the city. Apparently there was a storm in nearby Montpellier and the residual rainy winds came to Marseille. These winds were not violent like the mistral. They were grim. The mistral and these stormy winds took turns to bang at my kitchen window. As the sun set—not that it mattered, the sun, that glorious thief, seemed to have permanently stolen the day—the pasty glow of the streetlamp filtered weakly through my dusty window panes. My room was cast in a perpetual twilight. The only, slight, optimism was the promise of a murky tomorrow.
This is your best work, man! It felt Ghibli!
Man that's so cool. Are those harbours, streets still there? Dante's father's place for example: were they fictional lanes or do they really exist?
Which Dumas are you reading these days?