Extracts from a book I’ll never write

I look at my feet, the space between my toes and empty space and the expanse of sea before the line where it meets the sky. I remember how ancient Scandinavians believed that the Aurora Borealis was the refection of shoals of herring, of their iridescent scales projecting a light show among the stars. Today the sea and sky bleed into one another, a continuous stretch of grey reflecting grey and I think of how everything is a muted grey to me lately; every sound like the buzz of static, and I want to take that step towards the horizon.

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