Around here you can escape many things. Time, almost.
Here the sun rises every morning, red and pregnant with a new day, starving as much as the first dawn on earth.
The people who live here have leathery skin and their stories are written across their chests, arms, and knuckles.
They have lived a thousand lives. To be sure, however, they have also died a few times. For every death they’ve endured, they grow something new: the sweetest of fig trees the Mediterranean has ever seen, olives, that make olive oil, so thick and sultry, and almonds so sweet and soft.
You will never see a sunset because the mountains, they get far too jealous, they hide you from such sights. But once the sky goes dark, the pomegranate trees sparkle and the terrace lights up with dragon flies and butterflies in electric blues and reds.
The people sit beneath these sparkling lights, listening to twanging guitars and smoking hand rolled cigarettes and nodding to everything.
I will tell you some things because everyone here already knows. Understandably, you are not here, and do not know.
I: There was a Frenchman with startlingly blue eyes and this is what he said: “To be successful around here, you must be starving”. I agreed.
II: If you run fast enough nothing can catch up with you and you will sleep well, so well.
(Everything will catch up eventually. You must sing the blues off of cliffs until the pain drops far, far away. )