"The shore smells of salt and seaweed, wind is blowing from East and its cold fingers stretch below the surface, right under the clothing and onto the skin. His senses are full of this, eyes looking into the light of the sun without feeling its sting, then back onto the waves reflecting that eternal fire. The play of its reflections upon the thousand motions of the flow is like music without sound, a call into the embrace of the cold water. Lies, all lies, like moths turned from their way by the glow of a lantern, trapped against a white sheet.
The fingers of children grasping at their fragile wings, scraping off dust, ripping them off and they're closed into jars, waiting to die, unachieved and purposeless.
'Look,' they call out and raise the jars.
'Look at the moth I caught.'
He doesn't blink. His eyes are never open. But he is not a moth and it's not night. The scenery returns, vivid and colourful, just like he wants it. Waves washing pearls on the shore. He walks into the water, its bitter cold surrounding him up to ankles."