It is not an Island.

I am stranded.

No desert island. No ship. No Open Water. Yet there are sea gulls. How very, very peculiar.

Do stories form to narratives? Do ending occur? Are changes always hopeful? If life a loop we continue to populate with linearity?

This stranded space is a little cold. And empty. Am I on white (Matrix-style), or on black (brooding, atmospheric, ghost-stories)?

There are ideas that shift across, manifesting themselves in IMAX format. Wordplay: letters that dance across your face and eyes; meaningless drivel. Where are we going/twirling/slipping/mindlessly sauntering (towards)? The direction is "Lost", the driver's a bit dense/heavy(and over populated). Where does this roller coaster ride end?

But there we go again: beginnings and endings; birth and death; repetitive linearity or cyclical rotation? No, we're not falling for the Levi-Straussian trap. Time is more complex in our minds, narratives are not linear or unidirectional. We are fleeing to unknown domains, known only to all of us.

But I'm stranded. Who are 'we'?