There is a human being who lays himself down at the shoreline each day. His head lies to the south in the more wall-like form of the shoreline sand, the water held back there from its prevailing direction (a large granite groyne to the south we should probably mention). His head is up this end, all hard form and walls, like the bony borders of the head. He then moves further down as we walk north, towards the middle of the bay as it curves in, finding there a gradual easing and rhythmic breaking of the sand and water of the bay, as little ridges appear, pointing the way to the prevailing wave and wind and tide, each a little replica in miniture of the overall bay outside. Here we find a gradual procession to a kind of ribbing and breathing of the man in the up-and-down, in-and-out, movements of the shoreline sand, little bays within the overall bay, a tiny mirroring. Eventually, moving further north as the middle of the bay begins to curve back out again, we find the place where the often-dominant wind and wave direction rolls up ashore, and there we find no wall, nor rounded ridges of little rhythmic bays, but usually flat open sands with water sliding in on the shoreline walking way. Here the man’s limbs reach out and on, gradually stretching, bones thinning out to nothing, everything.