Yellow Is The Colour Of Sunrays. Down the back streets of Malta.

September 03, 2007 @ 4:14 PM

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“A man makes a picture
A moving picture
Through the light projected
He can see himself up close
A man captures colour
A man likes to stare
He turns his money into light to look for her

A man builds a city
With banks and cathedrals
A man melts the sand so he can
See the world outside

A man makes a car
And builds roads to run them on
A man dreams of leaving
But he always stays behind”
U2- Lemon

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The side windows of the car had been pouring in yellow for days, as we traversed this enchanted isle from corner to corner, landsharking. Everything seemed to be yellow there. Tons of churches in the villages and cities were yellow. Every house surrounding them were made of yellow stone. The ancient walls that surrounded them were yellow. Even the rocks of the coastline around Malta are all yellow. Everything else just gave up to the amber reflection, as if Malta was a giant bulb that ended up radiating everything.
We had spent all day in the only spot with good ground, a kind of prison yard in the middle of a roundabout in Msida, where the sun was burning fiercely. The yellow air started to get into the lungs. That prison yard had some ledges and flatbars, self- made by the locals, but after a while we started to see more possibilities there. There were movable fences and barriers, and then somebody found a good gap over a flatbar, over flatbar and gap, and a potential pole-jam spot as well, but this one didn’t last longer than that day. Some citizen-hero had bought his ticket to heaven by calling to the cops to warn them about the danger of the pole, whatever that may have been.

Our map was really nice: it was all full of tiny childs d