Seaweed marks the beach: topographic wheelies of brown leather etched across damp grains by the drunken wanderings of waves. Gritty growls thump my eardrums erratically; the sound of sand. A scowling auditory texture that fuses into a pleasing pop and crackle with the rhythmic baritone static of the tide. Gouged vinyl finding the needle on repeat. I squint, clench an unknown muscle somewhere near my ears. The clawing hum increases, groans, heaves, and finally drowns tenacious inner niggles; a rare break from within from beyond. Thunderous applause to the silent walker: racing, bracing, the wind facing. No rush to be anywhere for once, the finish line only coming with a choice to trek back in from the coast. Back to other volumes. I turn to the sea. The wild winter water sedates, televised in more than just glorious technicolour. Rolling rows of blues, greens, yellows, charred murkiness. Infinite. Mesmerising silk torn in jagged, crashing shreds with each hollow, thudding contact absorbed on the shore. With them, my brain flicks back into some median of focus and I walk on. To linger a little longer on the sand, in the static; really wanting to ever-follow the weaving, unscripted trails cast unsteadily far past the farthest I can see.
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