It is a fresher morning and I love the cooler air on my skin as I walk endlessly, it seems, leaving a clear set of footprints behind me in the fine, damp sand.
Looking to my side I can see another set of prints, just close enough to have been able to touch fingertips with the woman who made them. Slowly, inexorably, her prints seem inch away from mine.
There are other prints that come tantalisingly close but appear forever out of reach and are always likely to arc away from mine as I move forwards; sometimes striding but at other times, like today, walking slowly but still steadily.
The further I walk through this life, the more it seems to me that - in one sense or another - my footprints are likely to end alone.
This melancholy thought makes me smile to myself wistfully. I raise my head and enjoy the sensation of the sand beneath my bare feet.
Before my walk is done, there are many more steps to betaken.
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