Rhythm, Writing and Reflections on Summer

It’s about half past ten in the morning, I think. I’m not absolutely sure; I gave up clocks and watches a few days ago. All I know is that the sun is white-gold, the wind low and, through the window, the sea beckons. Time to marinate myself in sunscreen. Pick up the cabana chair, sunglasses, hat. Walk over the lawn, which bleeds into white sand. I take fifty steps and I’ve arrived.

There’s nobody at all on the beach. Just sand, powder-fine, cowrie shells sunbathing lazily near the water’s edge. ...