Pissing in the Wind

  just another rant…     Pissing in the Wind   In that time when thoughts come and go, I dream of truths that never were. We slither towards a new dawn, singing songs of past glory, as the challis changes hands; between those who vie for position at the tables of the damned. Where insults fly like arrows from

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Caleta de Famara

The Famara cliffs look like a sleeping mare with a wispy, cloudy mane Or like two dragons side-by-side as siblings. The noon sun strokes the scene with lightening greens, the ragged shadow atop. The lime-painted white village is modern by comparison. Surfers from around the planet flock to this beach and sometimes they roar within the crest of a wave

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