Many years later while listening to Schubert at night and tasting salt on his lips,

he yearns to be at that past shoreline again, where salt, like laughter in the air, was everywhere:

within, without. It laid its hands over them as they huddled in the hull-shade, away from an unrelenting sun,

and left white sweaty maps he carried (along with old songs made new) for a night or so, on his back into this arcless journey.

Schubert, salt, songs, shoreline.

Nostos for Return, Algos for Suffering. Perhaps someday the Algos does disappear. And all we do is constantly return.