I lie on the couch, eyes closed, facing the ceiling and listen to the sea rage. Once in awhile I look and watch the spray disappate into mist as it crashes over the pier and harbour walls. All's slate; the sea, the sky, the stone. Vast strips of foaming white tumult cut the sea, crowning the waves, embracing the stone, exploding and cascading over it. The few droplets of rain seem pointless against the sea's torrent. I lie back and look at the ceiling for a moment, shut my eyes. And listen.