Eventually, the cliff gave way to rocks again, and the rocks to pebbles on a dirt road. It was easy to walk, and there were grasses that one could nibble on, if one were hungry. The poet was quite hungry. At least she wasn't thirsty -- little streams criss-crossed the hillside, always travelling down, down, down to the ravenous sea.
Once, the poet knelt for a long drink from a slightly larger stream, and when she rose again, she was almost tempted to turn around, to look back downhill, down to her little house by the sea. She had gotten rather thin -- she almost felt that she could turn and launch herself out, out over the cliff. Almost believed that a soft breeze would catch her, would bear her safely home again.
She shook her head, pinched her arm, hard, and walked forward. Uphill.