The Fisherboy or Sandrunner and why this

Where were we, it is so hazy. In my recurrent confusion, even afterthe enlightenment, I can almost believe they drug my wine too. Don Pedro says this is un vino dulce, and the basket of fruit which is never empty nor far from my side, so drowsy and disembodied I feel as I imobiliare sit here in the evening by the open window, listening to these infernal cricket things, which however are less irritating than those artificial chirpings and jungle calls on the sound track of the farcical Tarzan films Bart sometimes shows on his new talking cinematograph in the hospital. And then at these times I often feel, strangely irrationally, that all this is illusion too. The adventures I have undergone every bit as illusory as the tree swinging ape-man who never actually left his native Hollywood for the dark and mysterious continent. As though the tale I relate is a colourful version of his black and white fiction. Yet who knows! The desert itself has never the same aspect, but its clear delineation constantly baffled by the invisible and creeping wind. Eileen and I have visited no towns, nor journeyed farther than the Roman ruins over the first ridge of the mountains (I will assay no peak again). However we did have our regular little strayings from the village. Eileen too, you see, likes solitude at times, and so, before my legs began to fail, we would often seek a blending of our lorn conditions (would that there could follow that other spiritual blending!) by walking, then later on horseback, across the desert in the late afternoon, past the oasis and crossroads, that lamentable spot, and along the isthmus to stand again on the shore looking out from a true vantage towards the wreck. The wreck haddefinitely not disappeared then, nor was it indistinct as now from here. At ebb tide it was still starkly revealed in the bay, barnacled and trailing seaweed. Then as we stood there a little later, closely linked and still, gazing pensively out through imobiliare bucuresti the evening mist, exiles both with the simple gulls, at the moment of most quiet Eileen would perhaps choose to ask once more where my ship had been bound before foundering and half sinking here. How did you come to he here? Where were you sailing for? she would ask, the only curiosity she ever showed about my yahoo past. And I, imobiliare bucuresti with clouded imobiliare bucuresti memory, not caring whether I forgot my original vague purpose now, uncertainly poised as always between past and present, would venture no other answer than, Here I suppose . Or perhaps, Read the book . Although these things she meant imobiliare bucuresti were not recorded there, nor could even Bart have told her. Then when she turned to look at me, lazily, quizzically with that exaggeratedly raised eyebrow, I would conveniently confound her to silence again by asking whether she had been intentionally bound for this place. For there hangs a tale, I would wager, more than she has told. And so we would speak no more, neither caring to question it. With hands joined we would turn again to look out through the purple and red touched mist towards the setting sun, content to accept the mystery. I did not care about the penetrating instrument at those times. We did not cross swords then. We were imobiliare calm in the evening facing the Atlantic that lay between us and the past, for time is grief's best anodyne, and we did not care, we did imobiliare bucuresti not care at all. We knew it had been preordained, the fate that had thrown