In the ebb and flow of time. In the oscillatory impulses of the motions of the sea.
In the inconstancy of humoral lunar cycles. And deep melancholy fade of the outline of the cliff.
And the horizon fading into rocks and rocks that slip into the fog.
What, by definition, is the cradle of the becoming and allegory of evolution and mutation with no return, becomes even a metaphor of metamorphosis petrified.
Everything is crystallized in a moment that doesn’t exist, except as incommunicable mental abstraction.
It is a naked moment, interrupted point within a laconic whisper.
This is the sea that cannot be communicated. A subtle inexplicable melancholy feeling. A silent ghost that manifests itself in some remote and hollow dimension of our consciousness.
Need of infinity, investigation of the time, exploration of our own depths.
Diving into silence. White noise lashed by salt. And wind as howl. All the screams of the sea that explode in the immensity of an infinitesimal moment. And they expand themselves in the restlessness of this obscure intensity that draws us to the bottom.