Of course, there would be traces of passers lost on the dunes, one we cannot always be with on their own but they would have come, and would have gone and now I would be alone with the sky and promises of thunderstorms in the cold sand of May.
Focusing on the clouds, too tired to measure up against the world then what the hell would Jung say seeing our nauseating debacles
then we would evaporate, of course, in the whitish mists sinking above the shore...
I'll wrap my wounds in the wadding of the sky, tell me, when will you come back? the horizon of vertigo, the balance of time, I will anchor myself in the sand of the beach.
Nelson, 2021, Sylvie GE
Where were we? It was time for memories and nostalgic laughs we we were starting again and again true stories and others that we were making up