There are bursts of intense blue electric sparks here and there. The clouds filled with eddies and whirls are like a brain. It's that color that skies turn when a late-afternoon storm generates a state somewhere between day and night. The color of the sky isn't particularly diurnal nor particularly nocturnal. Seated with his legs crossed on the floor of the living room of the Hotel in the Sands, beneath his mattress, Lorenzo Giraut moves the little mirror until he has a good view of the Camber Sands sky. Filled with places that are somewhere else or at some other time or that simply aren't. It's the same with the Fishing Trophy Room. In the here and now, in 1978, the Old Map Store no longer exists or doesn't yet exist or perhaps has never existed.
Not the same Camber Sands that will appear almost thirty years later in the Filial Dream about Camber Sands. He is sitting on the floor of the shelter, looking at the sky on the other side of the window with a little mirror taken from the suite's bathroom. In the middle of the living room of his suite at the Hotel in the Sands at Camber Sands, Lorenzo Giraut has built some sort of small shelter using various pieces of furniture and the mattress from his bed. Those brains that crackle and spark and bubble, their irregular surfaces covered with small electrical charges.
The sky of Camber Sands looks like those brains that live in a tank surrounded by machines. Wear sensible shoes and always say thank you. Accursèd! Accursèd be it to the æons! Hell.
There is no bond that can unite the divided but love: all else is a curse.
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