One cloak upon another. Impossible to determine how many. Lifting one of them, I can see the high tide rushing in, flattening the soft sand – the waves miraculous phantoms, the horizon a fading flame. The cloaks hang suspended and continue to fall. In the gaps between them, other scenes – inaudible and uncertain. Threadbare bits of cloth – the dark and elusive sky. The prevailing sense that nothing can be done. At some stage, there has to be some effort to escape this gentle suffocation. But for every cloak that I lift another descends. They tempt like the velvet sleep of a happy marriage. They are as light as the baffled air. They calm all of my efforts to resist. Each step forward is heavier than the last. The weight of the layers gathers and collects. It separates and dissipates. I tell myself to imagine things differently, to not succumb to any of this, but I am soon enough laden and confused again.

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