As one winds ones way home

The nights here are pitch-black.

Black as if a mixture of tar and soot has been painted over your eyes. Black as if stars were only a fairy-tale and the moon a nursery rhyme.

Instead of the constellations one finds other way to light the way home. Flashlights are a modern way to cope with the problem, golden palaces gleaming in the still temperate night is a more old-school approach.

 

Ruins of Jerez

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