BLOOD ORANGE SYLT

SYLT IS WEARING WHITE.

THE TARGA ISN’T.

North Sea light. Dune grass. Weathered fences. Everything quiet, muted, almost polite.

Then blood orange enters the picture.

The Porsche sits there like the guest who came to dinner in an orange tuxedo. A little too much.

Which is probably why everyone looks.

Salt in the air. Patina in the paint. The sea somewhere behind it.

BLOOD ORANGE SYLT.

The island was already beautiful.

Just not this loud.