The vertical limbs of the small trees are waving peacefully to the deep grey clouds that are slowly ambling across the sky. The seagulls are racing one by one, climbing higher on the drafts of air that rage across the invisible sky, barely having to flap their great wings to keep pace with each other. I am sat by the white hot coals of a small dying fire, kept warm on one side as my other side rests against the cool of a leather chair. Next to me, resting on the floor as I do, are a few books nearly finished. One straddles the comprehension of what photography means to Barthes, the other straddles the world of the rebel by Camus. I am content doing nothing, being no-one. All pressure has eased.
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