Clock Barnhorn Farm, Bexhill – 5 a.m., the hour England calls.
Nobody is around me.
The silence of the night, and my map with its compass, point toward England.
The pain of growing up is merely a companion in the dark night of the soul.
This is not the first time England burns me, expands me, and I recognize myself as a destiny with a whole, undeniable sense: a being that is being.
There is no control in my hands, and no sound in my corner.
Only the edge, where I am suddenly prepared to collide.
Bexhill is coming.
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