‘There’s writing on the cliff. High up. What does it say?’ Yute glanced out of the window then shook his head. ‘It’s a name. Meaningless graffiti written at great risk for an audience of dozens. Some people strive so hard for centre stage – bleed themselves dry for your attention – and when they finally get there and the lights find them, they discover that all they had to say is “I was here”.’ He frowned. ‘Though in truth, that might be an accurate precis of much of our great literature.’
