So maybe there’s no blue.

Walls and oceans. Passing through things requires a degree of change. Sometimes you’re ready to pass through a wall and it’s still a wall. Sometimes you’re ready to cross an ocean and it’s still an ocean. Mr Wall thinks every wall is his. They’re not. Mr Ocean says I Know Somewhere You Don’t Know. He’s right.

What’s the difference between lifting the heavens and bearing them? Direction of travel. Endurance and strength—who can push harder?

I’m sorry there’s no blue. Let’s talk about keys. A man makes himself a key, the wall is not a door. It’s still a wall. So much for keys. Reckoning with the having to leave. Reckoning with the having had to leave. Reckoning with the coming round again. How to acknowledge, thoroughly, intimately, without accepting. To know and to want.

No horizon. Or horizon, over and over, senselessly. How to reconcile the wanting. Wind, salt, grit, tide. The promise of a voyage. Light over water.

I know somewhere where the sea never ends. I sat on rocks before the light and water. I took one because I hold onto things. I sat in the small chair in the small cinema and used the small urinal. I didn’t feel big. And if I was I didn’t want to be. I used to think everything was small, too small for me.

Sorry rock. The rock doesn’t say anything. It never did, to be fair.

There’s an old story about Guernsey. We’re adapting it—shooting in a walled garden. They’re trying to make a tree look bigger than it is. Jules is talking about the classics, everything is something else. He looks at the garden. It’s Homer really, he says. It’s the Odyssey if Odysseus never left Ithaca.

So if nothing ever happened, I say.

“You know what I mean.”

I don’t need a big urinal. But I did leave again. I’m sorry there’s always something. I’m sorry there’s no blue.

Infinity, but never quite. And then the stomping on.