They say that objects not belonging to this world sometimes wash ashore.
They say that objects not belonging to this world sometimes wash ashore.
One afternoon, the tide brought a suitcase. When it opened, a deep echo was heard, as if the horizon itself had cracked.
From it sprang countless umbrellas, until together they formed an impossible tree — like an acacia of shadows, its fabric branches stirred by the stillness.
A slow, liquid leopard walked toward the acacia.
Its spots shifted places as it moved, as if its skin could not decide on a pattern.
It climbed the tree, suspended among the fabrics, and lay down on an umbrella to sleep, lulled by the marine creak of the cloth.
Then a giraffe appeared, her legs lengthening beyond the natural, as if the dream itself had stretched her bones. She reached the branches, tearing shadows from the umbrellas, and as she chewed them, the light of the sunset dissolved in her mouth.
