In a place not thinking. Grey above the sky, but bright, drifting in the midday mist. For what is this? Possibly a change in weather, but I have no recollection of seriously taking notice of the sky. I did indeed, however, squint, as I trudged along the beach, in an effort to lessen the consequences of the sun, to push it into the background, to position at the distance of a decade, past the point of the lived – the point of vibrant memory. To which, in my haste, and with scarcely any reflective effort, my eyes grew hazy, like the breathing of lizards, like the interminable number of spiders in the bush, with their endlessly expansive webs – with their soft stickiness. And this is known and clearly communicated in all manner of missives, in all manner of whisperings and attached to all manner of bricks. So it should be clear. One might hope it would be clear. One might insist it be clear, but the day reckons otherwise. One has only to glance briefly out the window, through a gap in the leaves, towards the escarpment, to discover the swirling bright mist which afflicts me. Harpies. For they are dragons. For they are alien men with foreign faces in fast cars. Actually not so foreign, now that I recognise them, now that I see them in their proper light, now that my sleep is once again interrupted.

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