As we walk the coastal path, east from Roses around the Cap de Creus, I notice that the sky is doing that thing again, the thing it does around these parts, as though clouds were instruments in a symphony sung by the sky, as though the sky were a vast canvas across which clouds might dance, converge, disperse, dissolve, regroup, in the infinite manner of being a cloud, in the obfuscation of a cloud (singular) becoming clouds, of the slowly mutating state of being one thing, then more than one thing, the distant wisp of a thought.
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