I sit on my mobility scooteron Traeth Gele, watching waves roll infrom Liverpool Bay. The wind finds its rhythm—steady, unseen—turning blades on the horizon,white giantsharvesting what can’t be held. Nature,translated into energy. I sit there,watching,listening, as words come flying out of my mouth—too fast, too many—scattering like spray. I reach for them,try to catch each one,but they slip through— and I can’t hold them all. My words tumble and crashlike waves against the shore. They break on rocks I didn’t choose,scatter into pieces I try to gatherwith hands that don’t always dowhat I ask of them. I collect what I can—fragments, edges, almosts—but the picture never comes togetherthe way people…