Rocks On A Shore…


Time marches…

Read After Burnout


I am sitting in a classroom at the edge of the world and I am writing.

Looking from my window, I cannot see the slow mud-filled movement of the tide, lapping and overlapping its progress along the coast. A teacher that I once had when I was still soft around the edges taught me that this was long-shore drift; the gradual, interminable erosion and kidnapping of all that once was called land. The school is an outpost in a region flattened by reclamation and outside indifference. It is here that I drive into my exile and it may be from here that I return. As you read this, I can hear the splutters of astonishment that entails the spitting out of tea, biscuits and credulity. This guy, me, is moving from a Jesus to a Moses complex. Perhaps you are right.

So, as Moses, Jesus, Atticus or whoever, where shall…

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