I became aware, while visiting the churches and cathedrals of France, that some how I was attuned to the walls whispering the secrets shared therein for centuries. Whispered secrets; just as whispered confessions were absorbed by the porous walls. The medieval voices, foreign voices, stump me but not so the more modern language.
While within the walls of ceiling-less cobble stoned streets where voices, shrill and loud, assault the brick and stone, there are no lack of lurid secrets. One must be clairvoyant to discern from the cacophony of secrets seeping into the alleyways what actually took place there; relying heavily on imagination to flesh-out the story. If not the truth at least it makes for good story telling.
Keep your secrets, if you will
Speak, knowing; walls have ears.
Embellished truth, do minds fill;
Share with all while sipping beers.