Dear Diary of Martin X 15/16/07/2016

I remember this place. there was a kinda dragon's lair, off the cobbled path. A castle by the river and horses in the square. The post medieval Kraków splendor rings with hooves and clattering rain. It was black and white when I was there, piles of horse bones lined the streets. Church bells stormed the bloated moments, bursting them like the river's weir. The trains clacked slowly through the night, ominous, haunting, somehow ghostly, inexorable and turgid, like the river; occasional spark-bursts tolled its wake, as though a dead weight fell from the ancient way-bridge into the tar-black water and became glowworm rim-shot and haloed with phosphorescent moonlight, ever so temporarily existing, like a daisy, flash-bled by time-lapse, then dissolving in the rippled night of the watery tar.
I remember this place for sure, there was an electric storm as the noble dragon clashed with an iron god in the heat of the dusk. It had to be a mythical tussle and none of nature's doing, I found, because there was lightning without thunder and the spectacle failed to relieve the drought, bringing no winds, harboring rain.