It's a rare sunny day here in Edinburgh. I can see the very tip of the castle from my flat, just a flag pole on a stump of stone really, and a sense of hugeness disguised behind tenement roofs and distance. At various times in the year the city sets off fireworks from the base of the castle — at festival time this is every night at around nine thirty for an entire month. Now the only noise is cars and seagulls. I feel like with a postcard, I should try to compress the whole city into this space — but it persists in floating above the words like a mirage instead. There's a place here called the Camera Obscura, where mirrors have been set up to project a three dimensional view of the Royal Mile into postcard-sized square in a small dark room many floors above the street. When you're here, I'll take you along and stand you in the spot where the lenses converge, facing the castle full on. Then I'll climb the stairs, and look at you from on high, a tiny projection I can scoop in the palm of my hand. A chance for both you and I to see how fragile all of — this — is.
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