At the corner of the past centuries

I’m a time traveller without a time machine. My thoughts are my time compass, my dreams are my wormholes. My lighthouse is an old tower clock.
It is near midnight. Around the corner, the last day of February slowly goes. At the stroke of midnight, ends the past full of fog. I’m standing on the old cobbled street, a street that craves for the carriages and clatter of hoofs. Above my head, more than just illuminating, the flickering candelabrums point the direction where to. Someone or something is calling me into the night. I don’t know where am I and when is now. It feels like I’m out of this world.
Like a stream bubbling over large pebbles, I hear murmurs of the random passersby.
Suddenly, in the darkness, I hear a nightingale. It seems as I understand his chant, it makes perfect sense to me. He chants in my language… he chants just like me, only two octaves lower.  He knows where is here and when is now. Or does he? I think he does, for who knows how many centuries.

At the next stroke of the old clock, the nightingale drowned his voice in the silence, disappeared into the night and left me awake. Awake, but not alone. From the other side of darkness, a big black raven came. The Raven, Poe’s raven, my old friend who speaks human language, with a British accent. I cannot figure out what he’s saying, but I can tell that it is serious. He calls for law and order. A stillness around him gives him importance. He is bold. Oh, my friend, be silent, don’t disturb the flow of time, go back to the darkness.
Where am I?
With a sound of the next stroke of the old clock, a river appeared in front of me. The seagulls flew in along the silence surface, croaking “Seine, Seine”. At that moment I knew where I was.  Murky and bashfully shallow, Seine flows, like the blood through the veins, it flows in the heart of a city.

Atlantic albatrosses are arriving. Some of them are Baudelaire’s and some are just the chatterers from Brittany. They came to visit relatives around Notre-Dame. I don’t believe that this is a dream, however, I do dream about hearing them. The next stroke of the old clock showed me where I am. I often come here with a big book on my chest and whenever I’m here, I don’t feel tired.

.  My time here is dropping, slowly, drop by drop, like a honey in a tongue, sweet and soft, so I can feel the full, rich taste of everything I see, touch, drink and eat. When I’m here I do not walk, I float, I don’t look back and even after five days my shoes are clean.
Maybe this is a reality, maybe I got out of my body or maybe I just got out of my mind.
The next stroke of the old clock made me wish to take down the big and cold Moon and lay it on the bell towers and baroque eaves and mansards.  So I stood up on my toes and I touched the morning. I took that big Moon as a medal from the slot machines at The Basilica of the Sacred Heart. I took the Moon and released the morning, right above my window, just before I finally fell asleep. My dream came through the curtain made of fog and crepe, while I was laying on the scattered silver.
Yet another stroke of the old clock sent me in the winter morning, on the dark hidden streets, in the secret passages, bridges and monuments, it sent me deep down in my sub-consciousness.
Around the corner, the last day of February slowly goes.

The beginning full of fog ended and the end without end started.

The last stroke of the old clock ripped the silence apart…good morning, Paris.