Standing alone as the night comes on, listening to the sounds of the sea and shore, I do not yet want to turn back toward the hotel. Sitting, therefore, on the cool sands, I stare out into a bleary horizon obscured by thick mists and growing darkness. I do not know why I do these things. A discontent has enwrapped my soul, and the preacher’s imperfection of all things haunts me. I wander from hotel to restaurant; from restaurant to shop; from shop to show. I want to get somewhere, but I cannot name the place.
There is an island a little ways from the beach, a crag, a rock, a nesting place for birds. It is but a shadow now, a tall shadow rising above the others. Darkness looms, and barely I can discern the circling forms of the seagulls, those itinerate thieves and beggars, who call the place home if they call anything home.
Tale Told 