The seagulls glided silently; their usual chatter quelled by the mizzle. The sky hung heavy like a proscenium arch above the Irish Sea, supported by the Poolbeg Stacks. The tide had withered the waters to draw the flock of sail boats together like white-winged terns on a matte centre stage colouring of slate, Payne’s Grey and pewter. To-and-fro, the white sails motioned, like cut-out scenography in a silent performance, seen just by him. Sitting on the damp harbour wall, he opened his mobile phone. He inserted earphones into the auricle of another world, logged onto his online meeting. The other attendees formed a phenakistiscope of slightly moving faces, muted and prepared. He knew that they were all sitting on their soliloquies, ready to speak about their difficulties in turn. His gaze drifted back to the little white sails, noiselessly harnessing the wind.