I'll try flying in the opposite direction. Passing dozens of strange, dark wooden structures below. Why are there so many of them here? Damp sand, sea waves my foot. The whole bloody sea is gone, leaving nothing but a glossy, wet wasteland. Maybe it isn't even water. It could easily just be a cold, sandy desert on some distant planet. Twenty-eight years after the last inhabitants left. I stop and wait for a moment to see if anyone appears over by that row of buildings – or are they hills? I hold my breath for a moment and open my mouth wide. To hear even better. But it seems as if everything slows down and falls even quieter, as if on purpose.

Drifting through Noikosmos #7, 2011