(no subject)
I have this fantasy about living in a small town on the coast somewhere in Europe. I'm not sure where it comes from, maybe an amalgamation of images and visions from cinema, literature, and some purely from the random recesses of the mind. Waves crash forcefully against the crags, and salty mist constantly wafts in through the open windows of the kitchen and tulips on the small dining room table. It mixes with the enticing aromas of the olives, tomatoes, and herbs from the garden. The house is compact and antiquated, yet adequate for entertaining nomadic friends on an occasional evening with wine and philosophical discourse. The yellow drapes of the kitchen waltz with the ocean breeze, and the sunlight seemingly overflows into the rooms from every crack and window. And when the solar visitor has departed for the evening, we make love in the lunar backdrop, either against the grainy sands of the beach or the upstairs room.
It is a house of wind, water, and light; it is a life of relative simplicity.
It is a house of wind, water, and light; it is a life of relative simplicity.