Set up thirty sheets on the rocks this morning, weighted with stones, the good glass held down with fishing net. Sun was perfect, low and honest. Then the sea did what the sea does and came in sooner than I planned. Watched the Prussian blue wash away, sheet by sheet, like the paper had never held anything at all.

Some of them I'd coaxed for days. The seaweed pressed just so, the exposure timed to the morning light.

I keep telling myself the ocean is the collaborator. Today it felt more like the editor. Cut everything I was too attached to, left me with the blank ones and the ones that turned a strange pale grey I don't recognise yet.

I'll go back tomorrow. The tide won't ask my permission either way, and that's maybe the whole point.