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I am on the sun deck of a ferry out to saltspring from the mainland, at 9pm on Friday after a long day, in the middle of the water. It's cold and black - the wind here is as unbridled as a prairie wind, but wet, like frozen breath. There are lights above, on the mast, but nothing illuminating the sun deck directly.
There are a few others here, that I cannot see but can only hear. It is deeply unnerving, but in a savory, intensely private way. Two people are talking with one another; a third sits in silence, and I'm only aware of their presence because I hear them open a can of something.
The sky is overcast, black. You can tell the locations of islands by the orange smudges on the the undersides of clouds, where towns and villages are, and by the scattering of tiny lights along the horizon.
I love this.
There are a few others here, that I cannot see but can only hear. It is deeply unnerving, but in a savory, intensely private way. Two people are talking with one another; a third sits in silence, and I'm only aware of their presence because I hear them open a can of something.
The sky is overcast, black. You can tell the locations of islands by the orange smudges on the the undersides of clouds, where towns and villages are, and by the scattering of tiny lights along the horizon.
I love this.
