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SCARS, STORMS

Late winter. Stores closed. Windows boarded up. No tourist traffic or parades of pedestrians. The old fishing town still slumbers under the heavy blanket of a long winter. The rents are cheap. The beaches are empty. Perfect for a long weekend away: sleeping in and wood fires, local chowder and long walks. The tip of the cape, the end of the way. Provincetown, Massachusetts. 

 

 

“At no other time does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honey-sweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.”

Rainer Maria Rilke