Grey's Spectrum -Brussels, Belgium-

I’m greeted by the freshly laundered dawn, pale slate linen hung to dry above a stirring city of collective individuals. I cherish moments like these, when I can step out in to the drying day without forethought or agenda and imbibe a city which has squirmed beneath the clouds for a millennium. And what a different place it would be if the sun shone upon it more often. What need would there have been for the gilded Galleries de Saint Hubert if not to protect the heads of the bourgeoisie? What drive would there have been for Horta and Blérot to duplicate nature’s balance indoors in glass, steel and murals and sprawl sgraffiti jungles beneath damp eaves? Why would beer need to warm one’s soul and feet if one’s shoes were not constantly damp? Where would have Magritte found his clouds? How would the cobblestones of the Grand Place manage to glow brighter than Saint Michel’s spire if they weren’t slickened by an otherwise uncaring God? How silent and plain the city would be without colonial djembe undertones, postmarks from a search for one’s self in clement Congo. It is a city of grey from which all colours run free, sober, deep.