October advertises lustrous light pearling above the coves.
The conch shell building arches inexplicably whichways, its message ever an
enigma to the passer-by. Some coves of cinematic bent flash upon its outward
surface the gay apparel of their art. Rust and Moth, Dust and Ash: it’s quite a
show from the ferryboat. Other coves strike on the bright idea of promoting
national pastimes, where everything has its price. Herringbone tiles scale into
the sky, oblivious to the rush and brevity. They stack like million blank
banknotes, reminder of a world before money, when the main
surrounding sound was harbour waves.
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