Here it is, the chalk caked cliffs stand above the soaring breakers, and on the edge of the seawall stands this snapshot’s beholder, Mr. Donaforte. It was a sickening photograph; this glossy polaroid positioned between two cupped palms. For as the shallow waves rubbed against the rocks and the Arabian winds whistled through his ears, the photograph remained defiant to the natural forces and like the cliffs, stood in his hands unabated. Within its thin, cream white edges glowed this other world --still, silent, cheap-- and he grimaced. Although these Mediterranean coasts had forever enchanted him, the image of that paradise lost the authenticity of the scene and blurred into artificiality. The seaspray had lost its salty taste and still his lips shriveled. The refreshing gusts that ran against the shore were an essential detail that the photo lacked and still his eyes squinted. The colors were intensified, the depth of the rocks and the cliffs had been flattened in with the sky and the sea, and in the middle of it all he stood alone, grinning like a child holding up a prized toy.