For years you run from yourself. To someone else or somewhere else, what do you need yourself for, you have to interlace yourself with someone, your being seeks another being, tissue seeks tissue, you stumble, you go on, after you, you will come to yourself. Arcadia breathes down your neck, a secret smells in the distance.
Susak is irrelevant. Not even five square kilometers, no donkeys, no olives, neither trees nor meadows, no roads, no maternity units. Scientifically, it belongs to a Mediterranean geomorphological rarity. Something moved in the Adriatic, a stone platter climbed from the bottom, and when the water drained from the platter, what was left on it was what was later called the islet of Susak. Some ninety-meter-thick sandy mass pressed the lower parts and hardened them, partly even in concretions that are not stone but neither are they sand. Pressures are miracle makers. If you had a piece of ice from Pluto, you could cut a diamond with it. If Susak’s sand had remained at least half a kilometer measured from zero altitude, some Adriatic-Neanderthals would have certainly carved sand salons and sports fields for lynx and conger fights at the bottom of the sandy concretion.