Monday January 2, 2017
I've never been here before, somewhere between the withering dunes and the silver shore. I end up colluding with the salty mountain mist. We agree that anywhere we are is a fine place to be. In fact, the sea brings us a giant wooden spool to dance on, a round table for our banquet of slow steps. It is covered with a crunchy carpet of alien life forms. Then I realize the mist is actually a relentless fog, a thick river of bright air, a quiet ambassador of unbound worlds that envelops the tiny republic of possibility that I am.
P. P. P.
Ahora: retomo el pie forzado original de este archivo digital - documentar mi práctica diaria de movimiento en la orilla en 100 palabras