Why else does the immensity of this space exist bound by the heaviness of this sea and cliff but for the most delicate of forms to sway and flow in the mimicry of something ineffable like a floral jellyfish or an illuminated nautilus whose static dance inhabits the gestures of Isadora Duncan stinging this spiral between weight and weightlessness?
It hangs there often ignored now. Just a pier. Something from a bygone era. Ships no longer dock at it. Only a few scavengers haunt it now. A lone fisherman waits in the fog. Barely existing in the forefront of anyone’s mind. But it is back there. In the deepest fog. Haunting minds with its ragged sculpture. This bare skeletal thing. This shadowy presence that hovers somewhere between memories. Some kind of phantom bridge. From the unknown to the unreachable. Affecting in its indiscernible way. An atmospheric link.