I can dream, can't I?
The romance of a far sea with fairy lights and fresh fish and cold Greek wine and not a single word all night about the everyday reality that has no place in whatever land this is, nameless and pine-hushed.
Not The Tempest, with its hectic enchantments, but the calm after the storm, the refuge at week's end, at land's end. A play that would hold no one's interest but mine, because it would have no unhappy or upsetting goings-on—only sheer poetry. Or maybe utter silence. Or the music of the soughing wind and waves (like the wonderful sound poem recorded in Il Postino).
The romance of a far sea with fairy lights and fresh fish and cold Greek wine and not a single word all night about the everyday reality that has no place in whatever land this is, nameless and pine-hushed.
Not The Tempest, with its hectic enchantments, but the calm after the storm, the refuge at week's end, at land's end. A play that would hold no one's interest but mine, because it would have no unhappy or upsetting goings-on—only sheer poetry. Or maybe utter silence. Or the music of the soughing wind and waves (like the wonderful sound poem recorded in Il Postino).
image: Ana
Georgeta, A Room with a View
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