Thursday, July 3, 2014


At the break of dawn on Wednesday, exhausted by the lack of stimulation, we decide to go for a drive in Elisa's car. First on La Corniche d'Or toward Miramar and then north, away from the sun. The morning light bounces softly off the cliffs and in to the ocean like fields of cotton, nothing disturbs the silence but the sound of the engine and tires against glistening asphalt.

We pass by a sandstone house, barely visible from the road but subtly alluring in its Belle Epoque glory. Henry wants to take a closer look so we stop and walk the 100 yards up to the empty driveway. One of the windows is slightly open, "let's go in" he says.

The darkened chill inside contrasting the outside, rays of sunlight filtered narrowly through Venetian blinds and on to the monochrome marble floor. We search for evidence of the owner's existence, puzzling together the pieces of a story from pictures we find in the master bedroom. For an instant we are living the lives of others until a noise awakens us and we hurry back to the car and the reality that is still ours.

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