What I love the most about islands is that they're patient. Disconnected from the mainlands, time goes slow, it's only traced on calendars. With little space, people stand close, so on another level, they push away one other, into dark waters. Population has its limits, so they end up loving and hating the same people. It's a small world there. Clarity creates confusion, even the simplest thing gets complicated. No one really leaves. In collective isolation, nothing's forgotten. By default everyone is eternal.
As Murakami puts:
"Somewhere, far, far away, there’s a shitty island. An island without a name. An island not worth giving a name. A shitty island with a shitty shape. On this shitty island grow palm trees that have also have shitty shapes. And the palm trees produce coconuts that give off a shitty smell. Shitty monkeys live in the trees, and they love to eat these shitty-smelling coconuts after which they shit the world’s foulest shit. The shit falls on the ground and builds up shitty mounds, making the shitty palm trees that grow on them even shittier. It’s an endless cycle.”
