The Edge of England

There is a particular feeling at the place where a country runs out — where the streets and the lamps and the long line of the front all arrive at the sea and simply stop. Brighton wears its dusk like an old coat. The light goes soft and pink, the pier holds its small constellation of bulbs, and the water takes the last of the sun.

From above you can see how thin the edge really is — the warm crowded land on one side, the cold indifferent water on the other, and a single bright seam of evening stitched between them.