The pillowcase

Barely spoken, scarcely wet. One of my favorite places on earth [...]. Pressed between water and water, stupidly standing upright. No fingers.

Though my histogram of scenic negatives has no entry on that, since I was ten its landscape has regularly been invading the medulla of my chemical devices.

These have reckoned for a substantial part of my fictional being, promoting a never ending urge to understand them - as far as nature can be understood, as part of what I desire.

The rotation of the meridians could have an odd effect if you're driving on the N125 from east to west.

Let me offer you a surreal sunset and

a pillowcase

in about 3 hours [That’s about 167km at an average speed of 55km/hour,]

if you’re heading for Sagres

mostly crossing every village and city on the last slopes of land before joining the sea

The side of the road went as pale as my inner thoughts, populated with pink and ultra violet flowers as soft as dreams under a linen sheet. Let’s have some sun to start with and allow our microscopic pores to readjust and play a tune in the scent of this harmonic field.

If you’re heading for Sagres you might get stunned by how arid, windy and flat the landscape can be. The perfect scenario to avoid thinking and await auguries; so the last thing you have in mind are bed sheets and pillows. But then, just on the right side of the road as you slow down at the red traffic light, because you’re driving too fast, there’s a typical house, middle size, all white with a green strap, horizontally painted with some green text as well – linen.

Bizarreries are such a common place in this land that you don’t stop to question yourself any more how it happens? You just stop the car and accept it as it is. As walking to the store, all doors were closed – there was a sign inviting clients to step in by the back door.

I could only think of one book I read 20 years ago with a misleading title and an absurd content – can’t remember neither, but the title could be something like “Winter in Paris”, I think the author was definitely French.

Once inside we were friendly helped by an English young man that did his best to show us all the good quality available.

We ended up buying some very good stuff, the best local linen, in white.

Let me offer you a surreal sunset, she said from the top of the wooden stairway, Thinking she was buying me a drink, but not wanting to show it I said, I might accept if you tell me what that is. She rambled about

regeneration of body and soul within the realm of earthly sins. Somewhere in the middle I heard her digress on paradise – green gardens and orchards spread among the swell of the land. All yellowish!

[I could only think of one book I read 20 years ago]

Somewhere between pale brown and yellow, sparse house concentration and most important, a singular feeling emanating from each particle, promising you a happy blue.

Will I end up singing as the sun slides across that idiot rock pointing up from the sea? Will we watch it hands in hands or most certainly forget all about it and sip little gestures as words flow from our mouths in search for transparency.

Just before the sunset

all together, the pieces blended.

No fingers.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho