“We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep.”
― William James
Today, I walked past fields of poppies and buttercups and wheat, bordered by walls of makeshift sandstone rocks piled on top of each other, each separate lane branded by little pastel signs declaring things such as ‘Independent Farm House’ in cursive handwriting.
In the distance, beyond the towering paddle shaped prickly pear cacti, hundreds of limestone houses were scattered across the landscape like alphabet cubes in a child’s toy box.
The cliffs were like a craggy old man’s jawline peppered with bristles; the infinite process of hydraulic action eroding it resembling age old wrinkles, stubbornly jutting out into the endless undulation of the ultramarine sea.
The Sun emanated a butterscotch glow, slowly setting beyond the chalk white clifftops.