We're in an island of the past. We're four hundred yeas old. Probably a million, and we don't know it. We might be dying off, or live for ever. Somehow, right now it does not matter. The colours are washed off, the wind's blowing. Portuguese ships left this place long ago. Still, the sand whispers their words.
The ghost of Vasco Da Gama strolls along the high whitewashed walls, waching over his crosses and cannons half-asleep in the sunlight, like good old friends. A guard pops up, out of nowhere. He's waving a bunch of keys while babbling something in portuguese. In the end we sort of understand what he's trying to communicate, and he unlocks the secret doors of inconquerable San Sebastian. I sacrifice my sunglasses to the gods in the depths of an old water tank. A more glorious end than the last pair, which I roughly sacrificed between the carseat and my ass.
Another gate and we find ourselves in front of the oldest church in Africa. The oldest European building in the southern hemisphere. Right beside the oldest believers, the waves of the sea. Minds become shipwrecks, laying still below the chaos of the waves, observing a world that once they only saw from above. The flying world has crashlanded into silence.
We're in an island of the past. We're four hundred yeas old. Probably a million, and we don't know it. We might be dying off, or live for ever. Somehow, right now it does not matter. The colours are washed off, the wind's blowing. Portuguese ships left this place long ago. Still, the sand whispers their words.
The ghost of Vasco Da Gama strolls along the high whitewashed walls, waching over his crosses and cannons half-asleep in the sunlight, like good old friends. A guard pops up, out of nowhere. He's waving a bunch of keys while babbling something in portuguese. In the end we sort of understand what he's trying to communicate, and he unlocks the secret doors of inconquerable San Sebastian. I sacrifice my sunglasses to the gods in the depths of an old water tank. A more glorious end than the last pair, which I roughly sacrificed between the carseat and my ass.
Another gate and we find ourselves in front of the oldest church in Africa. The oldest European building in the southern hemisphere. Right beside the oldest believers, the waves of the sea. Minds become shipwrecks, laying still below the chaos of the waves, observing a world that once they only saw from above. The flying world has crashlanded into silence.
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