The colours in the evening are a carefully selected palette, moving from rich pinks to fiery oranges, then a gradient of deep blue pulls itself up from behind the buildings, and up and over us it goes. It’s an old man slowly pulling more duvet over to his side of the bed, across his rounded, curled shoulders, with his firm forearm and frail wrist. It is an agonising slowness with all the beauty of something so delicate.
First off, the grass I mentioned yesterday has an uncanny resemblance to Donald Trump’s hair, something I hadn’t noticed yesterday because of the ice. It is wheaty, hardy, dry, and the wind has given it the same properties as a rug whose pile runs in one direction. There are tufts which create the crest of a wave, and surrounding them are the broken waves, forming hollows. Given enough force and time, the wind can make an ocean of anything. But this is a hardy, robust ocean. Like the rest of the island, it continues to exist due to a fierceness. Alongside the Trump grass, there is also tiny little ferns attempting to grow. One was stark white like a new shirt, and had the stumpy leaves that all enduring plants do. Grace isn’t compatible with survival. Grace is something which can only exist in a state of abundance.
The island is gorgeous. It is a teardrop shape—a shape of beauty and sadness, of joy and the carnivalesque. It's also silent—except for an odd birdcall from the south-east. It sounds like a wooden peg board, like the sort you get at school in music lessons. It also makes a whooping, taunting sound. It knows my situation.