I shut my eyes, think of white, geometric buildings and the sun, and I’m back in Greece, during the summer of ’08, walking through the narrow alleys of an island town, white walled, doors painted a blue so rich and vivid that they dazzle the eye, reflections of the vast sky above and the endless, hammered sea below. That summer seems distant not in a temporal sense, but more as if it took place in a dream; the breakfast we ate on a rooftop patio overlooking the town, a chessboard nestled between crocks of home made jam and bread, plates of local yogurt drizzled over with honey, the stupefyingly good coffee, the eggs, everything. The walks through deserted, labyrinthine alleys, the bursts of brilliant purple against the white walls as the wind shook branches laden with blossoms. The sun, beating down, baking and dessicating, the tall veridian bottles of Mythos, the land and dirt beneath our feet the same as that once trod by heroes in legends.

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