The heroic cliff resists the stubborn onslaught of streams. The patron saint’s house, remodeled to the taste of the centuries and the caprices of misfortunes, serves as a weighted lookout over the street tangles. Next to it, the fort of Saint James takes on the tone of the sun that rose on the blue table before it. The small height is quite mischievous, misleading those who venture to go up to the foot of the tower – boastfully alone, sobbing gaps of its white Arabic dome over the aged houses. The tiny squares survive the void and the quietness, denying the absence hidden in silent and broken floors.
Late afternoon (entering as a slow ship). The basalt that endures says goodbye to the light. Nearby, on the wall that goes around the end of this world, a couple unites the warmth of their hands in a parenthesis delivered as a final dive splashes the tide.