I began to make my way across the precipice of the rock face. It was dark, but that mattered not. I’ve found myself walking across these paths so often that I feel even had my eyes been closed, I would be able to traverse this route without so much as slipping once.

Out in the distance, you may see the occasional trawler passing by, they turn into small beacons in the distance, like pinholes in the night sky. It was my own preference that they not come across these shores. Perhaps I had gone insane. This ailment will soon leave me immobile, they may very well be my only hope of survival; but this illness is not only of the flesh.

I made camp in an abandoned shack, its supplies scarce, its frame eroded, like everything else on this island. At night the wind howls through the windows, as if fiercely shouting at me. Perhaps, it seems, that I am not welcome here after all.