The aethereal sibilances of Brèsil

The imaginary direction of the winds

Arctura Cutshell dedicated her 19 years of life to see the winds, each one of the four with their allegoric state: 

North/Boreas: welfare.

South/Noto: love.

East/Pamphilian: peace of mind.

West/Atlantean: mystico-sexual excitement.

As the winds were flying by the days, and the days were flying by the winds, Arctura measured them in weight amongst the dandelions, at her prairie in the island of Sark, her rocky homeland devoured by the English Channel: 

she could distinguish each colour for each wind: 

North/blue

South/pink

East/yellow

West/green.

The domestic-little animals of the environment, like the lupus-miniaturis of the English Channel (loup de La Manche), the leopardis inferioris (guépard), the joyful vermin (insecta) or the soft lion; all they started feeling a rare lycanthropic angst, due to the near dissolution of the Arctura’s body into the astral panel.

From the miserable shore of the island, over its anemic grasses of the mild fall called October, it could be seen the French coast, L’Armorique; and far, far beyond across the combed Ocean roads, the dark silhouette of the depressed North-Iberian shorelines, that looked black and already submersed into the shadows of the night.

To her left and to her right, like a tomb that never asks questions, the old Mare Tenebrarum of the Romans was black curtain and epilogue over itself.