1
A ship breathes with its sails. There is a ship with a dark red sail, parchment embossed with writings nailed to its mast. Writings chronicling a good life…
But the good life had long since gone South – or more precisely, West, according to the map. It had seeped through the dotted line, off to the West, over the state border. And what’s left? Square metres, transparent l****s, the pennies of a cash advance and non-essential dates – dates of non-being. Ships and toy ships sail the streets, sail into stagnant harbours, kiss the silt or knock their sides against that same dotted line through which you can seep, but not sail.
So many sails. On every balcony. Yellow, white with blue-eyed spots, pink for a wedding… They aren’t all for sailing, although you can certainly sail with the red a
