Wreckage #1:Silent Departures as the rain at the bottom of pine canopies. They walked, the drop start to fall, foam on the tip of the waves, crashing on the shore, smashing over severed branches, mumbling endlessly canticles of subtle secrets and even feebler certainness. Climbing in heavy boots and uncertain pathways we reached the top of the hill. In the distance, in the fading light of winter's constellations, towards a distant see they fled, the ships and mariner's Babylon. From there we saw them leaving and their return, with hope, we blessed. Wreckage #2: Over the mast they sail. Shoreline, skylines, undefined boundaries, from deepest abysses the voices of the lost bodies and the mournful chants of whales. Window through the sand dunes and the dried-up, stick-thin, over-stretched arms of unflourished rootstock arboreta burnt by the salt and the sea. Shadows over the gravel and the stones which carry names and do not nurse souls, but a myriad of infinitesimal rows of insects in impalpable procession of imperceptible orations. For what remains of the memories of those that over the mast sailed is told by the waves, sketches of conkers, of salt gems, of corals. Wreckage #3: The anchor at its last dive. Crocked layers of copper and concrete define the askew orchards of skinproof apathy, held in corset, squeezed in the ever-running turbine of the meridian breeze, made out of chalk, chiselled by salty foam, rigid and immobile, immutable and a-changing, following the footsteps of irreversible pathways, under the thick oleaginous coat of oblivion, it dives. the anchor, at its last dive. It carries the webs of the weed and shells and rust and the sand and the ship and the sailor in the perpetual quietness of the deserved rest. Now with the sharks and the cuttlefish for your companion, the glory of the ocean you crossed, remember the streamline, the endless self-mending inexorably bleeding wound, spitting the macerated content of its bowel as iridescent foam, it has come to its memorial. And the banquet is ready, the spiral of life and death renewing, the hammer and bell rang for crew to follow. Wreckage #4:Come To The desert Shores of Nowhere. Ravaged exasperated existence crackling along scattered benches of refectories. Portraits on the walls, faded, expressionless faces, eyes of marbles, lips of unreal vermillion, and decorated frames, in inexhaustible corridors. Than to another door lead, for sound of the steps echoing, who accompanies the daily journey of the doubtful host, committed in a collar for a clip and a clincher. The clamor of jaws and mouth, of fabric rubbing over veins and arteries, exposed wires of a carpet's texture. Imperceptible and archaic, essential and elemental conjecture, swooping and vibrating in the anxiety of forthcoming harvests, the songs of the cricket and the flight of the moon moth. 01. Silent Departures 02. Over the mast they sail" 03. The anchor at its last dive 04. Come To The desert Shores of Nowhere Made in the Lakes' Land

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