There’s a painting on my wall of an old house, a windmill and a steady sea – the sky’s the deepest grey (the deepest grey). When I’m most alone, I can see a boy, standing at the window – so afraid, so afraid. Waiting for the tide to wash the stains away. Waiting for the fish to bite the broken. Waiting for the loss to carve him open. It’s a coastal place, a distant space, a scene I can’t replace, nor would I want to; where else could I find you? The sand is stained, the air is laced; a time I can’t erase, nor would I want to – where else would I find you? When the time is right, they’ll find you.