The passengers on the boat have strange sloe shaped eyes. The pupils are dark liquid and there is a drama in this journey that needs some thinking about. How many figures are there? You try and count but get lost in the liquidity of their expressions. Raw expressions alive with the knowledge that this is a journey of moment. No sail, certainly no engine, no oars but this boat is continually propelled by a sea and wind that imagination has to provide. There is a child, half-clad. And a woman who looks strangely like your mother, how she was those last few times we saw her in the hospital, the air breathless and clouds coming in through the window. The journey is nearing its end and maybe this is it, the realisation that the sea has ended and what? A falling away down smoking plumes or a lifting into golden vapours. Factual letters in black and white telling the meaning here, but not necessary: the expressions on the figures speak for themselves. A choir starts singing and you look up at the windows, the abstracts of colours that take you, for a moment, to the very end of this journey.