Windborne Pilgrims

Famara, swept by the spring winds, captured handheld, uncomposed, on the move. Salt and sand in the air. Surfing until bodies give in. No scenario. No plan. No regrets at all. What we call the smell of the ocean is dimethyl sulfide. In our heads, we made up everything else. There is no magic, no nostalgia, no fate. Only chemistry and the wind. Give it all the love you’ve got.