previous  next  latest 2008 M 07 _06 | WALK TO THE TIP OF THE BOW detailed coordinates that she left don't seem to match . another place randomized overnight . a long drive further north . the car cruises along the bridge descending into the fog . old tree branches and lamp-polls pass by softly . the island is quiet , waiting . blinding white from all directions makes him stop . massive avalanche of salty coast hits from open roof and windows . crabs , seaweed , shells , well-rounded pieces of long-passed ship crashes get in the ears , nose and mouth . last traces of time vanish in the myst . the fog in front clears . she walks up slowly showing the way .
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