For years I lived at the edge of the Sea of Artefacts, where great-looking stuff was washed up every day. People came & went: turnover was higher than you’d expect given the relaxed style, the constant good weather, the ease with which some sort of existence could be pursued. The explanation for that was, people took away the first thing they could carry & parlayed it into an income elsewhere. But the hard core of us hung on, out there shine or shine, throwing the small ones back, waiting for an item that would make us think. Our living structures glowed at night a hundred miles up and down the coast, their temporary qualities defining over the years a permanent aesthetic–whitened sticks, mirrors & rags, although to incorporate an Artefact would be considered bad taste as much as bad luck. Back from that, the hinterland was dark, maybe a little more threatening? There was poured cement there, you would have to talk yourself through the bars and blockhouses to get your item out to market.