Lampione
The island is a barren and lonely place. Its shores are rocky, desolate. The only indigenous flora is a variety of tough, wild grass. Flocks of migrating birds gather in this place. Here, they rest their tired wings, and feast on the crustaceans native to the surrounding sea. The water here is clear as gin. Several varieties of luminescent coral punctuate the near anaesthetic calm of the sea. Rain is scarcely seen on the island. It is hot. Bright.
The lighthouse towers above the surrounding landscape. It is old; although, in this place where time lies dormant, -the very concept itself an amber encapsulated abstraction- the seniority of this structure is meaningless. Its cycloptic eye no longer burns. The lighthouse is in remarkably good shape; patches of its white and red paint have chipped off over the years, but the colors remain vibrant. The summit of the building is a jungle of birds' nests; the great lamp that rests inside is broken and unusable.
At the bottom of the lighthouse is a small room. A bedroom. The room is spartan in its furnishings. A cot, a bedside table, a small bookcase, a writing desk. A porthole-like window is nestled into the wall above the bed, flanked by sand-colored curtains. Sunlight filters in through the window sleepily. Dust floats dreamily through the light. The sheets on the cot are stiff and bone white, the effect of years of exposure to the sun. They are rumpled and unmade, almost inviting in their informality. The bookcase is filled with texts on marine biology, botany, ancient history, and other, more recent, and somewhat out of place tomes of genetic engineering, quantum-physics, neuroscience.
The writing desk is populated by a portable typewriter. It is in pristine condition. Its keys are black and boast a healthy lustre. They give a satisfying metallic click when pushed. On one side of the typewriter sits a clam shell, a brown Thoth-Amon cigarette carefully balanced on its edge. On the other side of the typewriter is a glass containing a clear liquid smelling faintly of anise. An open bottle of Ouzo quietly rests on the bedside table, half empty. A piece of paper stands primed in the typewriter. A word has been immortalized in rich black ink on its surface:
Actium.
The lighthouse towers above the surrounding landscape. It is old; although, in this place where time lies dormant, -the very concept itself an amber encapsulated abstraction- the seniority of this structure is meaningless. Its cycloptic eye no longer burns. The lighthouse is in remarkably good shape; patches of its white and red paint have chipped off over the years, but the colors remain vibrant. The summit of the building is a jungle of birds' nests; the great lamp that rests inside is broken and unusable.
At the bottom of the lighthouse is a small room. A bedroom. The room is spartan in its furnishings. A cot, a bedside table, a small bookcase, a writing desk. A porthole-like window is nestled into the wall above the bed, flanked by sand-colored curtains. Sunlight filters in through the window sleepily. Dust floats dreamily through the light. The sheets on the cot are stiff and bone white, the effect of years of exposure to the sun. They are rumpled and unmade, almost inviting in their informality. The bookcase is filled with texts on marine biology, botany, ancient history, and other, more recent, and somewhat out of place tomes of genetic engineering, quantum-physics, neuroscience.
The writing desk is populated by a portable typewriter. It is in pristine condition. Its keys are black and boast a healthy lustre. They give a satisfying metallic click when pushed. On one side of the typewriter sits a clam shell, a brown Thoth-Amon cigarette carefully balanced on its edge. On the other side of the typewriter is a glass containing a clear liquid smelling faintly of anise. An open bottle of Ouzo quietly rests on the bedside table, half empty. A piece of paper stands primed in the typewriter. A word has been immortalized in rich black ink on its surface:
Actium.