It had been so long that we'd imagined these chasms, in places where only ditches exist. Skirts hitched we leaped across them. Retrieving childhood games in service of salvation.
Under a big cloud sky we are reminded of that old place where the breeze blows 200 million stories into a small tropical town. We reflect on landscape and it's impact on culture; the imprints it leaves on our lives. This country is small indentations that are at once transient and irreversable. It is a paradox that exists in isolation, that is passed over in the glossy icons of metropolitan dreaming. Sprawled beneath the caterpillar head we invest in our transformation.
I wanted to tell her that she saves me, everytime our footpaths overlap
but sand is not sentimental, and my words, like everything, get blown away.
