Virtual Venice, where Alexander Calders are giant attenuated red insects in my dreaming atrium. Victory fanfares party-popper the plaza of gold-thread-and-feathers that any moment will be lost in rain. Vengeance is staved off over espressos when the beginning of the end of the Cold War is the only talk. Volcanoes burst anew from eighteenth-century imprints opened for visitors. Vile insinuations wash down the canal of yesterday’s crime scene, all in my mind. Violin TV signals continuity from upstairs windows. Vietnamese mint beams in purely cerebral patio pots. Vacancies press at hotel doors where September makes way for early chill factor.