Message in a bottle floats in the sea, like the ghost of a starfish

Multicolored winds kiss the trees.

To  L.

“A profile in bas-relief and behind a yellowish film that flows and you can see mysterious glances of  women by the hair and then olive trees and red earth the background a voice of mother nature woman: “Tell me a story …”.
Certain orbits meet by chance, in the air. Like stars in the fist of one hand. God throws them in the air and the rest is good or bad. Or simply a fortune.


Sometimes the signs do not need frames or explanations, only to open wide enough to be hidden drawers and rewind stories, such as silk ribbons that become words.
was July. For the play of opposites, I thought of forests by the sea. The surf and the warm sirocco wind, the sky of a land that keeps you attached to a hook, and if you move you bleed. But if you think it’s just a breath, a smell of unlit candle.

Hidden from the eye kohl, as poised on the precipice, sweet, of not wanting to know. A pearl on black velvet. For me it’s like Idrusa, perhaps brought together to the sea shells on the shore of Otranto, a June day, the sun drops on the mosaic.

The meeting at times on the edge of a porcelain or china cup intently watching the rain outside the window of his heart. I get the impression sometimes that the before and after do not matter, able to blend the edges with your finger, savoring the colors before the water makes them grow. On the bank of the river he calls home.

Choose the spices one by one in the souk of life, read on the ankles of a dancer, coming up to feel the smells, hear the voices from afar. Essence rhymes with absence for those who do not believe Cassandra and knows some faint notes that feel especially at midnight.

Cape Horn is the first piece of advice he gave me, without knowing it. Me are sewn on.
Because Louise is not a safe haven.
It ‘a suitcase and a kaleidoscope.
It ‘a gateway to the sea.”



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