This the closed road from Port Bou which glistens with the dew of morning. Redemptive time which crystallizes as tree, as leaf on the way to a border. My dear, it is summer. Time to be out of time. Let us read together the world's newspapers.
Memory is our language.
We are two minds that lie athwart each other, two continental plates with errant nationalities that articulate via subterranean grit. In time, we will grind this world to powder, to be upraised and bleached by processes of the seas. But the wind blows. The surf ripples and slaps with the sough of all the living and dead it has dissolved, and, with a great respiratory suck, deposits on the beach what waves must leave even as they take back what must be taken back. Ah, you hear the anti-noise where gusts expose the sheet of crumpled newsprint buried in the sand.