But the petrified mass is stubbornly clinging to its current identity.
She scribbles, on the paper this time, what are we before we come into form?
Throws the pencil down. Gets up.
Through fog, Godrevy blinks.
In the lane, the wrong side of the door in the wall (door, not gate, hermetically sealed), her black dog – the visible panting tongue-lolling one. The dog’s raison d’être is about bursting through that which is closed – the longing to be where she’s not, and where she’s not supposed to be.
They turn, dog following woman out towards Porthmeor and the cliffs beyond.