Gray dust as far as the eye can see under a gray sky without clouds and there suddenly or gradually where dust alone this whiteness to decipher.* The foreshore is this expanse destined to disappear and reappear, caught between high tide and low tide, an image of a time restarted, a winter expanse inhabited by gray lights that void, subtract by invasion. The foreshore is a place that does not exist, destined to await the ebb and flow, revealing, on days of strong wind, an impeccable space, also restarted, clarified, perhaps a place that unveils an inner patience. Jérôme Combier* Samuel Beckett, To Finish Again and Other Failures, p. 13, De Minuit ed.
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