She was standing near the harbour, the old harbour where her father told those histories about sea monsters and large travels trough the seas. Her legs were hanging on the edge of the pier. The edge, always in the edge. The sun was meeting the end of the sea and a silent red explosion was hurting the edge of the sky for a while. This sky, this sea and this orange breeze. No more and no less. The fight painted in her body a sort of oranges and reds, fighting too to colour her milky skin and her golden hair. Her hair, her skin. The histories of her father started to bleed on the sea, painting all the surface with a nostalgic red mass. Her home started to burn and her heart was trying to find the way to find the burned ashes. Her hands was standing on the rocky pier, feelling the cold and irregular surface. The same rock where her father talked about humanity, morality and the whole meening of human being with all those old fishermans. Those old mens that were fighting for his lives, against the sea and against himselfs. This sea, those old mens. She was trying to rebuilt her old house with the hot and black ashes, but the wind of the sunset throwed the black dust to the bloody sea. This blood, this ashes and this live. She never understood, like the old fishermans, the brave sea, the wet pier and the orange sun. Never. Always in the edge. Her father was always walking in flat terrain, talking about what happens there while he was living here, talking about something that never touched but was living in the tongue of all of this cults mens. Only in the tongue. She never touche those humanity that was standing in the tongue of her father. She only remember the strong and lovely tact of her fathers hand in her head. She was standing always in the edge. Between all and nothing, like all the humans. Like all the things in her concrete world. The sun finally defeated against the sea and her father started to walk on the bloody sea, searching always there. Trying to live like a God jailed in the bloody body of a concrete human. She was still sitting in the edge of the pier, the black and cold pier, looking at her fathers sinking in the sea. The weight of a God is too heavy for the human body. In the edge, between concrete and abstract, between the sea and the sun, between the death and the live, between the ship and the harbour, is were the human is a human, were a feelling is a feelling, and no more. The white skin beated the sun. In the edge, waiting for the next day, another battle. The same battle. Another day. The milk against the sun.
Early Day Miners, "In these hills" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y92-d__Rbmw
