This is how we feel. Alive on the beach, in the breeze, with hands over our eyes to create the vibrant, purple, geodesic domes that Buckminster Fuller spoke of so lovingly. Out towards the vague horizon, the waves roll over onto the podiatrist’s feet; she moves the camera blindly from one frame to the next, past the horses and the waves of water
The chasm beneath Edinburgh’s streets sure struck a chord; the author sincere with her research, whatever the year, whatever the festival, whatever the danger she was later to speak of. We all need some space; the brown and white hoofs splash their exited riders into the tides surprises, the dogs that barked have left the sand sunk pools, left the faraway roar of motor cycles
We all need some space, also to talk to the stranger dressed in white muslin, he moves away, steps up a gear, jogs along, and levitates to the next breakwater. We all need some space, he checks his pulse and pedometer; with my blurred vision I can easily make him out to be two, turn his outfit to become ever more flight bound and exotic
The sands become a desert, the sound of waves are thanks to the ever present wind noise; winds that stir the particles into a massed morass, for all in which to sink. Better then to wear my spectacles, or look for the shorter, more distinctive view, see what can be seen; reign in my over active imagination, once more caught unseen on film
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