When the muse seizes me she not so much inspires me as rides me, becoming that restless tormentor described here. But she visits only sporadically and of late she's left me masticating grass and gazing vacantly beyond the fence. When a friend noted how long Zia has been out to pasture, I found only these shamefaced, mute observations to offer. They have little photographic merit but these faces whispered to me through a mild misery that drove me up and down the steps and steeps of Lisbon a while back.
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