Imagine yourself walking through a city with narrow cobblestone streets. Buildings flow seamlessly on either side of you, only interrupted by the occasional cast-iron gate leading away into a dusky unknown. A moon floats overhead, but you only know because every so often a beam of light sneaks through the copious covering of clouds to illuminate the terracotta tiles sleeping over the city buildings. Crawling into the sky against a backdrop of rolling mountains, church pinnacles scratch at darkness as embers of false light war with the impending obscurity of night.
Further down the road, a faint murmuring akin to a whispered secret begins to tickle your ears. A few more steps and the murmurings grow into the recognizable chorus of water playing against rocks. Crying over the river, a weeping willow sways in the arms of the wind, and the sound of their waltz drifts over to the bridge on which you now stand.
Suddenly, shattering the tranquil silence of the night as shockingly as lightning rockets through a storm, you hear cars careening carelessly around a corner. There’s a sound as something pops, then another, and another. Laughter trickles shamelessly into the night, but it’s not from you. Water slowly seeps into your clothing and the remains of water balloons are strewn carelessly around.
Welcome to Carnaval.
