THE waves lapping at your feet. You hear a foghorn in the distance, the space between the next land and yourself spacious, and widening. The year is 2017, and it's a windy day, you've got your toes dug into damp, yellow sand. Your heart is also flighty, like tissue paper. Your neck tight as a fucking deadbolt, your insides hollow of emotion, rich in apathy. This is when nothing touches you. You anticipate your next couple of trips, and mentally dull the frantic urgency of plans afterward---to escape. For now, you hang around in the present, willing life and time to flow slowly, and thickly.