It was a fine light machine, with red tyres and wooden rims. . . The machine was a treat to ride, on his right hand the sea was foaming among the rocks, the sands ahead were another yellow again, beyond them in the distance the cottages of Rush were bright white. Belacqua's sadness fell from him like a shift. He carried the bicycle into the field and laid it down on the grass.
More Pricks than Kicks
Samuel Beckett
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| Flickr (cc) Photo by Nick Watkins |