I’m crossing the shore in bare feet and my trail disappears behind me, sinking. I have no idea where I’ve come from, and without that how do I know where I should go? I carry an image in my head of a man crossing the beach wearing wings – did he glide down from the cliffs high above, or does he wear them ready to fly away? I suspect he’s already flown: he’s a solitary figure and he walks away from all that gaze at him. There’s a trail behind him that he can’t see, but maybe he just doesn’t want to turn and look. Maybe he’s scared that if he turns there’ll be no footprints and he too would have nowhere to go.
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