The Artist has chosen a limited palette today; only tiny gradations betwixt sky, sea and sand. The waves come in like sighs. Three large pelicans, their strange anatomy more noble than humorous in the paleness of this light, glide along atop the water, wings stretched kite-straight, sleek silver feathers casually grazing the water. Like grey rocking horses, a tracing of porpoises, parallel to the shore. The horizon vanishes, married finally to the sea, and all that remains is soft wind, soft sound. My book remains as unopened as my thoughts. I wrap my spring green shawl round my shoulders and close my eyes. There is no better way to spend my birthday. Be back soon.