Monday, 6 June 2011


A man walking the sun dried street with a cheap plastic wall clock, offering to sell it to passersby for 5 euros.


A drunk man, hair falling in his eyes, lazy town square on a Sunday afternoon, trying to take my picture, giving me 10 cents. Fumbling for a lighter with a hand that has a needle stuck in the back of it.


The sand is grey at the end of the world, charring winds have dried it to a crust.


Festooned and forlorn with hanging strips of weed and rag, swinging limply in empty breath. Swags of green anchor down to the sand where they spread out like dead hair. Underwater dreamworlds that swim so freely, dry out and die when washed home on rocky shores.


Children ran round the fire, through floating sparks that swam down through everlasting air. For luck, for bravery, for the future.


The thing about travel is to go and be alone until you don't feel alone any more. Until your sense of the world replaces your sense of self.


You see, the problem, my love, is that actually, there is absolutely no point at all. If you want one, you will have to make it yourself.

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