Always shy and lost to the world of people, nowhere does a conversation begin in silence. Anxious to the next step, untangling cobwebs of time, actions are mute. Furies reside unabated in the next move, swirling around, searching for patience. The breath is hard, somewhere the cold eye of the passerby pierces through the guilt of the yet done. Hold the creases of the passing air, hold it tight, see it tumbling down deep in the lungs. Release. But only a vacuum appears, an absence, where running away is not an option. You return to the same place, guilty, tired, admonitions ringing in your head, punished several time over, brutalised by your own hands. Erase the marks of your fingers, the disappearing edges in the sand, the depression in the earth. All accepted with impressions deep. A fall so deep that echoes last in the dustbins littered with evidence of your guilt that trace your path to the peace long lost. From where will you return?