A tiny island in the middle of the sea, where crumbling vestiges of some ancient past still cling to the undergrowth as if they had one last, reluctant secret hidden in their broken pillars and fading hieroglyphs, where marmalade sunsets bend low each evening to decipher the words before the moon wakes the sleeping marble, knocking in silver code, where the dark quiet is punctuated by owls telling their young about ghosts that walk by day… Who would you take to such an improbable paradise Marcus, someone who despairs of poetry, someone who dismisses history or someone who decries the magic of nature’s circadian kaleidoscope?
Perhaps some paths are meant to be walked alone…
Maybe sorrow lends itself to solitude. But happiness, Marcus, happiness is a heart in love, craving company, miserable alone, looking constantly out of the window.
Where there’s an insomniac raconteur owl?
another vapour trail
the sky sighs