One late afternoon I woke up cluttered with the remnants of a nap’s dreams. I’m not even sure I’ve ever seen you drink, but in my dreams you are perpetually the drunkard — cruel, incisive and swinging, your body a wrecking ball through the stage set of my subconscious. If this were real life I’d ask you to leave. If this were real life I’d stop laughing at your jokes, saying “it’s not like this even matters!” Ha ha ha.
I decided to take a walk to clear my head, but it’s dangerous, walking alone in this state, on this beach, at this time. Everyone else you see here is walking alone, too, looking meaningfully (really, is there any other way?) into the ocean. Oh vast expanse! Oh perpetually shifting shore! Grackles swoop from the sky like chimney dust, vomiting SQUACK! SQUACK SQUACK!
It’s too easy to assign the people you see here with secrets, small troubles. They lean against the pier, squint a little, sigh. They pull their coat tighter around their shoulders and walk on. Crash crash, says the ocean. You think: wouldn’t it be great, to stop one of them and ask to trade? Suddenly the only thing stopping you is physical, a lack of sound in the throat.