the archipelago

In the weeks before my flight, I’ve found myself dreaming of a series of islands. A single road connects everything—at times tropical, often European—though the order in which things appear is unpredictable. The main climaxes and inversions often take place in a Swiss town: erratic topography, a large wooden pavilion, wide balconies with pastel umbrellas looking out over the sea. The road never quite reaches any of this, though; it dips and buckles and turns in on itself, always missing what you see through the windshield. Roadside stops involve a series of boats and flights, the occasional swim. I’ve encountered almost everyone I know well along the road by now, but social scenes haven’t been very important in these early nights of exploration.

Mostly there are long, silent periods spent in a glider, examining the islands from above.