The gloominess of dusk makes it seem like you are alone in the earthly immensity, where you coexist only with the small infinity of insignificances, once despised by the consubstantial deserts. Coriolis, you go through the same places every day, you remember each of them as if it were the most important moment of your life, you turn them into a back and forth of directions that always return to the starting point, an endless cycle that reflects the passage of time and the direction of the winds, which raises memories with each touch of the immanent effluvium witness of earthly vivacity.
Coriolis, you play with the direction of the sea waves, deciding at your pace how far they will be able to come and what they will have to collide against, because the cobalt tint of the surface plays passionately with the golden sand that adorns that beach with an autumnal hue, where textures are the undisputed main attraction, because a touch of that clinging coffee-colored surface allows us to remember the immensity of existence; where each feather that flies through the air, each scar caused by wounds that now seem insignificant, or each fallen leaf from a tree ready to rest becomes a reflection of our own history from which we cannot escape. Because with each centimeter we advance, a new trail is attached to this story reflected in the skin, which anxiously awaits for you to pass by the same place again and on your way allow it to travel again but, perhaps this time, take another direction.