A still mind on a Sunday afternoon, the movements are incessant but lead nowhere throwing out vague strands of second-hand thought. As if all the energy has drained away into the basement leaving only the elusive traces of a mysterious bitter-sweetness, a sort of nostalgia as if you have outlived yourself. Having seen this, that you are no more than this, that you can't raise a single word against it, can you ever go back? Something here is real but it isn't you. A strange blue abyss, like a twilight after making love, planets drifting apart, a mood no music and no wine can ever reach. Lights blinking on the other side of the bay, doors closing on empty rooms, the smell of cooking, intimations of mortality in memories of boyhood. If time was to be redeemed how much it would have to come for, how many islands so long adrift?