It would seem that sound, especially that which one might conjure up of water lapping away at a beach, the sound of the water that one might expect, that one knows is there but can't quite see, evades. Here amongst buildings on wooden stilts, piles of rubble, and sand. There are no beaches, no undulating ocean and its syncopated rhythm, no occasional flash of white foam at the crest of a wave under the gaze of the moon. Here there is no time, no steady melody to measure it by. It would seem impossible that these island palaces could be huddled together in such unlikely numbers. In the night their foundations beneath them are stripped away and the truth of their construction passes for a lie... instead they rest upon columns of light. Gondolas and their masters navigate these waters by the grace of open widows and lanterns in perfect harmony with the silence and the footsteps, the stable and the wavering, the deep green mirror like water of the Adriatic basin and the softness of the sky.
