Roll

Take a late morning train, middle of the week and none of the well to-dos are on their way yet, you have the row to yourself. Watch Long Island rush past your window in increasingly thick greenery, a gentle reminder how rarely you the the wild anymore. Dark brown wooden shingles rule, the sun comes out and tans increase the further east you go. Smell the salt water, see the dunes rise like waves cresting on either side. They pick you up all smiles and you think the air is a little lighter out here. Stare at a blue horizon with nothing in it until Europe.

The night is cold, but completely quiet. A full moon rises over the water. Your bed is full of pillows and whispers to you of a hundred years' sleep in its folds. You let the night reassemble your pieces. Let the rolling sand make you whole.