Ramsgate. It isn’t Syros. It’s not London either. I sit here in the basement bay window craning my neck to get a peek of the grey sea. I lay in bed on a morning and listen to seagulls, squawking around and flying over the backyard. I walk over the road to stare at the sea at least twice a day, as if I need to remind myself it’s still there. The tide patterns remain full of mystery. People wear shorts here in October like they are trapped in a perpetual summer. They all have at least one dog to walk. Some say hello and have conversations about the weather. Or recipes with spinach. The sunrises are spectacular. And sunset’s grand. It is making my sentences short. Like a wave. Nipping against the moon’s rhythms.
I think I like it very much.