The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat.
On his left, a sheet of interrupting water comes and goes and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes. - Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains rapidly backwards and downwards.
As he runs, he stares at the dragging grains.
The world is a mist.
And then the world is minute and vast and clear.
The tide is higher or lower.
He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focused; he is preoccupied, looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
