For five weeks, to watch and record impressions and recollections updated by the tides.
The foreshore of my memories, a threatened place halfway between the steady and the moving.
The greys of my childhood turned blue under the September sun.
Infinite beach always repeated, always rendered.
Marram grasses, undulating downwind, framing the horizon of my memories.
Cabins of my secrets.
To love your little country, the best thing is to exile yourself from it forever.
-- Marguerite Yourcenar