"The sea brought small treasures back to the shore that The Girl scours every day. She finds little things buried in the wet sand, she fills her pockets with them and walks back home. She lays the little treasures around the house. She wanders around, from one room to the other ; one is dark and cold. The AC works but the light doesn't when she flicks the switch."
"When the night comes she roams around the city in her Chevrolet, the cream leather seats are warm and she gets dizzy in the winding roads. She stops and looks over the valley slowly lighting up in the dusk, -a silent watcher. I am one of those that are invisible, with a window down maybe, part of this undefined symphony of cars that come and go. Teenagers roll-by, fast, loud, -and we all look at the same sky, the same planes landing and taking-off,"
The Girl scavenges small objects from the shore each day, tucking them into her pockets and displaying them around her house. She moves through rooms, encountering one that stays dark despite a working AC while electric blinds cast shifting light on the walls. She prefers a narrow corridor and notices a small, loosely framed painting suggesting waves and a distant sun. At night she drives a Chevrolet along winding roads, watches a valley illuminate at dusk, and becomes part of an anonymous flow of cars whose occupants share the same sky and imagined lives.
Read at Pitchfork
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