Beginnings confound me. As far as I can tell there are no beginnings or endings, only a vast infinity of middle. Every story begins in media res – but it is the choosing of a particular moment of middle that is the most challenging. But does it matter ultimately? Time appears to behave as the tide does, rushing forward and pulling back, spilling shells and slick strands of seaweed in one moment and reclaiming stones that had remained rooted for decades back into the depths of the sea. It is all told eventually and the omissions, the silence, often carry the most meaning of all. The silence in me is the faint echo of the sea in a conch – amplified and roaring. But I cannot begin by rushing in. I will start with a few drops.