You drive up. You keep driving up. The road becomes a switchback, then a ribbon, then an idea of a road clinging to a wall of limestone.
At the top, the Mirador des Colomer — a railing, a void, and four hundred meters of nothing between you and a sea so blue it looks edited.
Continue to the lighthouse. The wind there is constant and the goats are unbothered. The island ends, and then it ends again.
"The Mallorcan light is its own substance — denser, somehow, than anywhere else."
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