I’ve painted this road so many times, and each time I walk along it I wonder, worry even, if I’ll ever walk it again. The path leads downwards, westwards and towards the black sea. At night, in the darkness, my chest full of the damp salt breeze, my grandfather chats to me from the blackness, ‘How have you done?’ and ‘What have you done?’. Now when I’ve reached the place where I’m ready to talk and listen he has moved further along the road, I can hear his footsteps.
