You can have no secrets from Venice. It knows everything. It works you out as you walk the streets and canals. If it needs more time, or if you have more secrets than most, it will keep you walking, turning like a puzzle in which you are the ball trapped in a maze. Things will look as if looked upon for the first time, but you will have seen them many times before; things that you think you know will not be known to you. You however will be known: to the houses, the open windows and the water running beneath the bridges. You are at first a rumour passed between them, till when you rest, when the ball falls through the hole, then, and only then, do you become a certainty, a fact.
The city is like a puzzle, with one possible combination; one where all the pieces are thrown and reassembled with every step you take. And just as the city is in this state of constant flux, so are you. But you have many combinations and you are not reassembled the same way every time, but are thrown together randomly, and only the merest fluke, an unlikely stroke of luck, will see you as you know you really are.