I have come back to the ocean (again). Grey leaden light overwhelms two bays which are disputing which one should show me the nature of the shore. The nature of what touches what and what contains what. They meet in a massive cross which spans the horizon and the sky above my head and the ground beneath my feet. A text is written across the sand about the bones of my face. It is all held together by fragile stuff. It is a world which could easily fall apart (would it be replaced immediately by another?). Between the cracks I can just about see your face. I don’t know your face. I don’t know what you look like. I know your voice (your) (words). But your face. Does it resemble, in any way, the faces I have drawn onto the trees in Ostia? (I am) there too. Do you cry flowers, do you speak flowers. Are you sometimes blinded or muted by flowers or by other faces. Is your face sometimes projected against the side of a mountain or against my face. Does it sometimes rise up out of the tree line on the horizon speaking warnings. Warnings about (knowing) and (wanting) (to) (know) in white words against a dark sky. Is the face and are the faces I have been drawing and drawing on – time and time again – your face (your) (faces) our face?