At the end of the world, there is a beach.
Beyond the beach, sky. Grey sky, grey sand, where one begins you cannot tell, where the other ends, likewise.
Walk as far as you like, there’ll be no footprints. Look back, and it will be as if you’d never been.
You can hear the sea, the wind. They sing to you in a dark whisper, meaningless.
You tip your head back and see the grey clouds scudding overhead, fast as time-lapse, slow as dawn.
You laugh, you breathe, you take off like a child’s kite, bright and brave and free. The hand has left the string, or the string the hand, it doesn’t matter. What does, now? You are without hope, you don’t need it any more.
Because this is the beach, the one you saw long ago, at the end of the world.