Slippery sea rocks to the point and a peeling picket fence, protesting the wind. I come here when life seems as hard as it gets, and I can hardly take a second more. I'm used to isolation, keeping close for months on end, punctuated by rare escapes. But the freedom is waning, hard to hold and harder to handle, too much of my own voice. Out here, the wind howls so loudly that I can't hear what I'm thinking, the world like a seashell pressed to my skull. Starving artists eat themselves whole, a hardy meal (you never run out of things to feel). Biting down on biding time, far from contact but close to the heart. If it weren't for the listening ocean, I'd be lost at land a long time ago.