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A palace on a hill, one painting I have wanted to stand in front of for years, and no stamp in the book yet.
Written as a plan, not a memory. I have not been.
I have not been to Urbino. Every note on this page is a plan, and the entry stays hollow-marked in the directory until I have stood in the room and can write something worth reading.
The obstacle has always been the same one: it is a hill town reached by bus from a valley, four hours from the cities either side of it, and it refuses to be a morning. Spring, and a night in the town — that is the shape of it.