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Here, at a red hill fronting the sea. Here a view of trees showing where the land fell. 
Over many miles, the sheer drop of land, the shoreless edge. And from the road, the high horizon, dim in mist always. 

If only I  had the time, and the peace, I could paint and write epics of the island forming in the sea. 

Thurs. 26th Dec. 4 pm.

Words fail. The pencil fails to convey the gigantic might of the coast here 6 miles below Hilo. I crossed half a mile of giant round boulders and sharp aa, all black & spray-glistening to get to this vantage point. From one point to another, always expecting to see a final point in the distance. But here, as at other places, the lava coast continues endlessly great sharp hills of black are all around me. They rise more than 40 feet from the white foam. And the waves beat furiously, from the deep, shallow ocean. It is cold and windy. The sky is full of low blanks of purple clouds. The sea is deep eyeless blue, heavily moving This is unconscious power, monotonous in its nature. The wood is a hundred