The Root of all History


The sun dips just below the nearest windowsill, sending a shaft of golden-red light across my lap and illuminating the tiny text stamped thickly across my book. It's getting late. With a sigh I yank myself out of the Punic Wars, close the massive volume, and ease it back into the shelf. A snap and a rustle, and the laptop's stowed away safely in my bag, still reeking like a hot tin can.

Greece is the root of all history. I wonder if you know that, Leonine Stranger, as I walk past your paper-strewn table. Did you have the good fortune of being born here, or do you share my little boat of tourist-dom?

(I actually prefer the term 'windswept vagabond' but somehow it hasn't quite caught on.)

As the evening fades quietly into night, I wend my cobblestoned way back to the youth hostel. The streets seem to catch their breath at night, and a sudden burst of activity rises with the stars. It's particularly raucous tonight--what on earth is going on out there, anyway?--and the sound makes it way into my dreams as a backdrop to the sepia-toned battles of a long-dead age.

The End

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