It is dark and the night is young. The dull gong of sound is constant, occasionally run over by spurious zest, the froth of conversation. The trickled out of the beer jugs and landed on our shores of wakefulness. Prasies of some alabaster-skinned beauty lurks unfatigued, the tunes which rock our sails. We watch vast lands being traversed. The blacks and the oranges of the grasses, the episodic humour, repetitions of our follies. We laugh at the screen, absolving of the pain of not seeing through images, transparent reflections of carefree colors. The echoes reverberate the dead, from valleys. On the valleys blossom romance. The olive tress sway in sombre sweetness.