Upon wishing I were in Corcovado.

Earlier, I printed out a map supposedly outlining the ancient plans to Corcovado's otherworldly sewers, with dots outlining aqueducts that brought much needed laughter to winemakers and farmers.

I wish I was spirited to that particular spot upon the first mention of the word/concept/ideology of Corcovado, that it was going to be the place that a million writers and bards were to be shot down from in-betweens of stars, where a blade of grass will be crushed in that particular manner every time a lover walks away from the house that blankets his affections.

This is the place where stone walls foretell secret marriages.

In other words, I'd like to go here, even just through the mp3 playing in my mobile visa.