my feet are my arms, and they ache and are heavy with sleep. from the top of the mountain to the city below, i could close my eyes forever.
we made our way down through the ruins of an ottoman castle. rocks rolled below us. we fell upon a fountain laden with rose petals, red and beautiful and out of place among the wild flowers. we saw chickens in the bushes, and among the chickens a rooster. a young man sat alone at the edge of a cliff, staring into the distance between his arms and his feet.
in the morning we walked by the shoreline. stray dogs followed us for several meters then were distracted. the waves were soft and graceful on the bank, the sand subdued and reset with every pull. the sun washed out the sea, the coast, the pebbles and the moss. even the sky lost its blue by the glare of the light. the day felt long with so many days between the hours. i tried to look underneath the pools of water for something i might have missed: a crab, a key, crystals—but there was nothing. no crows, no gulls, no seashells. just the sun reflecting, hiding gems and treasures in plain sight.
in the days within the day, there were hours for each day, and hours for each hour. today we return to where we were yesterday; we extend the hours with our eyes closed between the city and the mountain. at this time of the year it is easy to find comfort in these deserted junctures.