A day of bad weather, but all is relative and the sun still shines for half of it, the breeze is still warm and gentle. The beach empties of all but the surfers, some people have proper jobs and pack up, the holidays over. I sit in a plastic chair behind the house with my own words, trying to edit, trying to do something useful with this time spent out of the water. But my brain will not function.
Somehow everything took a vacation and all we do is sleep. At nine-thirty I am fighting to stay up, and I forget what my normal evenings look like in their refusal to tire. I revel in the luxury, but something in me begins to itch. I haven't a word to mull over, I haven't a thought that cares enough to be processed. I am empty, and when there is time to contemplate that, I miss it. Perhaps I have to sink slowly to the bottom of this delicious, sandy, salty, breezy, warm space, before I can wind my way out of it.
It's not a bad place to be, while waiting.
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