It's the same as last week. Or the week before. I forget. Wet winters mean circling in ever-tighter orbits. To avoid mud and because your mood disorder writes off novelty as some sort of dangerous affectation at this point in proceedings. The sun rises at 8.12 am but you don't, really. Cream and refined starch, especially in close association, will make my arse fear my internal organs: whatever. Fuck wellbeing. Fuck hip to waist ratios. Fuck most things.
And good blues. Luminous and saturated at the same time. I think we have some of the best blue on the planet.
The big Larus Kelp/Blackbacked Gulls are starting to pair up again, loitering idly together, running through random phrases of their courting routines and ducking for crabs in the sea lettuce. You can see one floating in the lower third of the image below. A lot of people dislike them, reviling their intelligence, persistence, resourcefulness and courage. It's because Blackbacks refuse to go quietly. They are a totem and consolation, reminding us implicitly that axial tilt is a real thing and that this internal drab is in remission; I will take their word for it.
The clinker dinghy.