I would like to talk to you about these sailors.
Well, at least I like thinking they are sailors, although they're not close to a seashore, if they have ever been close to one.
Their houses made of wood and their facades painted in colours. Their roofs raise up to the stormy skies like the crest of waves, breaking against imaginary figureheads.
Every morning I cross their village.
The wind blows around its corners, and fills its alleys with brown leaves and blue carrier bags sailing against the whirlwinds.
The cables hit the mast of the antenas at a continuous metallic pace.
Never I have seen kids on the front yard decks, the swing in the playground only rocks its own shadow.
Every morning, alone.
I look for eyes behind the net curtains or whistles coming from the slot of an open window. Doors open behind my steps, and close instantly when I turn my head to them.
My eyes hang from a sudden camera zoom.
Nothing happens at the sailors' village without sailors, without boats.