A plateau high up on the south face of a mountain, looking to Spain across a flat valley, smoke from the towns and villages, make a disc of yellowish haze. The silence is strong, wood against wood in the trees and beak against wood from the birds. Occasional and sporadic gusts of wind rattle the dry leaves left on the branches, the snow removes all other sound, and my presence is neglible as is my sense of any self.

I drove across the mountains from a grey, damp and cold, through the tunnel into bright sunlight and warmer temperatures. The journey is only short but puts a distance to the struggle and darkness that sometimes descends.

My father is ill, and no matter how much light fills the landscape, the darkness can only ever fade.