the dim hopes revolving around mystical matters are nothing but the shallow peel bound to wither and die as soon as it comes off. this island is magical. i wake from the birds in the early morning hours to a silver white flag dancing in the wind. it is eerily quiet in terms of civilization made noise, i can hear myself breathing.

the volcanic stones ashes speak in the womb of this earth: of olden times, of wrath and love.

lush is the valley.

i am not healed yet.