Ether I sit at night in a little piece of paradise, Spirit wandering or overflowing

With next memories. There’s no regret, no turmoil. But perhaps a bit of transience.

The wind. Starting from north, it’s a near-perfect angle of -31.72 degrees. It’s the corridor chosen by the meltem to enter the south of the island. The golden angle: an apparent heading of almost 330°. It’s written, determined. Always in summer.

Yet nothing bothers me, Neither the sky, nor the moon. So very familiar.

Through flying, you get closer to the sun. Hubris.

Beyond this reason, it wavers further, ranging from 280 to 350 that summer. To the frustration of estimations that play with and undo the hopes of forecasts. Is it the emergence of plastic, or the cries of the oppressed? Stochastic.

I know that tomorrow Perhaps the dawn will become freedom, And the wind, and the waves will be its heralds.

Through endless flight, one draws near the sun. Hubris.

The Meltem is a gift from the north. It comes from the breath of a muezzin atop of a Balkan tower. Bouncing against Olympus, whence the breezes flow, merging and travelling all over the Aegean Sea. He plays into the hands of gods and men. Islanders, sedentists, refugees, stowaways, migrants, travelers.

Shifting through diverse currents, shaped by headlands and islands, by sun and stars. Now a nudge from a depression feeds it, setting it trembling from the east, twisting it southward, driving it back against a peak, steering it along the rocks, forced to rise, to tangle, to spiral, only to pour into the bay like a devil unleashed, battle, battle of whitecaps, and die in the open water, as though the south ended there, as though the east began just beyond. Gazing toward the orient and the rising sun, or come evening, playing in the light, watching the west and the sun once more, then the moon, itself both east and west, both north and south.

The curve, the roundness, introduces a confusion of bearings.

Orographic. Orange. Orange too.

Like the earth. Round and ochre. Cutting against the azure. The blue. The island. Lush and arid.

The bitterness of haze, From the vague melancholy of one day to the exuberance of the next. Stochastic.

No wind without a dance around atmospheric pressures, no air either if the surface is no sphere, no pull. The sea would take flight.

Metastasis. Continuous evolution. Revolution.

With next memories.