There was a foreign land on the other side of the sea that I used to visit as a child. Despite the summer, the ocean foam was cold and gloomy.
Not too far away from the shore, exotic trees flourish with lorikeets perching the branches — when matured, they launch the tree to the city streets…
Next to the harbor, occupies a giant monument built out of white pearls and abalone shells. Hundreds of tiny boats gathered around it, with white sails made of snowy feathers. Thousands of seagulls hovered over the vessels — their plumage made of misty clouds.
In this iridescent land of magic, it is easy to lose one's mind and soul. Things made of other things; life grows out of other lives… Thus, all the children from my visiting group have a “time compass” tied to their wrist, reminding them of “home” — now an illusive idea represented by a single direction, a mere number.