A short walk along the beach.

You are standing at the edge of the shore, just south of a long pier. [[The pier]] transgresses the line dividing land and sea. Printed on an aluminum sign beneath three or four generations of uninspiring graffiti reads the text, "//This beach is a work-in-progress. If you follow a path and it leads to a dead end, feel free to go back and try another path :)//". [[The waves]] are kinder where you stand, more threatening at the foot of the pier where they bark up the pillars like [[hungry dogs]]. [[Your arms]] are crossed against your chest. [[Your hair]] submits to the will of [[the wind]], floating up across your face, lapping against your cheeks, tugging playfully at your scalp, then returning to rest against your back and arms. Sand cradles [[your feet]]. [[Your belly]] rumbles, and you realize that in your rush to catch the sunset, you forgot to eat.

Your left hand holds your right hand, which is balled in a soft fist, tight against the space between your breasts. Your palms are damp. A series of [[plastic bead bracelets]] cascades down each forearm. A gentle whine of the wind and the caw of a nearby gull move you to release your fist and wiggle your fingers. [[Wiggle them.]] [[Clench your fist tighter.]] [[Be still.]]

One by one, you release each finger of your right hand from its clasp. You begin to wiggle them, first timidly, feeling the sands of your heart stir under the heat of your fingertips. Soon, your whole body is [[alive with feeling]]. Every meadow and its dancing grasses, every cicada weeping in chorus, every thread of every knitted sweater bobbing against the skin of its precious wearer... all the movement in the world is animate in your motionless body.

Rejecting the impulse, you squeeze your fingers tight together and raise your fist to [[your forehead]]. Very slowly, your eyelids lower, shutting the ocean into [[the nothingness around you]].

You brush off the impulse to wiggle your fingers and instead drop your arms to your sides. Your breath slows and softens. As your body relaxes, so does the wind and, in turn, the ocean, whose waves drift off into a stern quietude. Even the gulls cease their heckling. In the infant silence, your heart's insistent thud takes the forefront of your experience. You become lost in its deep resonant drumming. Here in stillness, [[everything melts away]].

You are standing at the shore end of a long pier which juts brazenly into the swarming waves. The air smells vaguely of [[funnel cakes]] and... [[what is that smell?]] You hear chatter up ahead and notice [[three children]] kneeling, huddled next to a small [[bait and tackle shop]]. A large fuschia [[sequined]] flag catches your eye. It says, "Jesus saves, God raves!". An [[enormous woman]] covered in tattoos of guns of various shapes and sizes is holding the flag in one hand and smoking the largest cigar you have ever seen in the other. [[Your throat]] feels tight.

Your feet, saddled snuggly in a pair of [[dollar store flip-flips]], are your dearest companions. [[Your left foot]] is feeling a little ticklish. [[Your right heel]] aches.

Oh, dear. You forgot to feed [[Pedro, the stray yorkie]] you befriended and took pity on and who now lives with you and [[your daughter]] in your 400 sq. ft. [[basement apartment]]. Things aren't ideal right now, especially with [[your ex]] fighting for full custody and [[drama at work]], and Pedro's well-being has been sort of an afterthought in the midst of it all. You close your eyes and bow your head and send Pedro an apologetic message through the aether.

The waves in front of you gently slap against the sand, then dissipate down into the earth. Each one carries with it distinct spirits, memories from across the world. //**A boy calling for his mother—she jogs to him and offers him blackberries from a plastic carton.** The taste of tart blackberry juice saturates your tongue, teeth, palate, and throat as his teeth sink in.// //**A snail braves the journey along a fallen redwood tree. It is rotted in its depths and teems with small devourers. Some are companions, offering respite from the arduous exodus. Others are foes, and the snail retreats into its shell, awaiting their farewell**. Your skin suddenly feels slimy and sticky, and a longing for a sense of home possesses your throat and heart space.// //**A train chugs to a halt in its home station after a long time, many months, away from home. A neighboring train rotates to face it, and they gaze into one another's faces until dusk, noticing every new scratch and dent and bit of rust. **The smell of soot trickles across your nostrils. Your fingers trace each wrinkle and smile line on your face and your eyes and lips soften. "Thank you for your passage through time, old face, my dear friend."// [[A line buoy]] bobs in the nearby shallows.

While your right foot is made primarily of carbon fiber, the heel is a corrosion-resistant aluminum bronze alloy. The ache indicates the presence of something undesirable [[beneath your heel]].

Memories flash in rapid sequence: holding your mom's hand at the carnival when you were nine; [[bussing tables]] at the Thai restaurant next to the [[sketchy pet store]] off 3rd Street, riding bikes with [[Linda Thornweiler]] in Prague just before your dad got laid off. Your mind settles on the word "[[opium]]", and you feel your lips mumble it in tandem.

You were saving up for a new lawnmower after sinking your dad's old one in a pond down the road from your parents' house. You'd strapped a shopping cart to the back and duct taped down the GO lever. You steered by shoving a PVC pipe into the ground on either side, which was unfortunately inadequate. You managed to bail before the whole contraption was swallowed up by that rank bog water. You don't miss bussing tables, but everyone in town knows Khem Sovannaroth makes the best massaman curry in the state, and you might never get over the grief from losing your free daily curry and rice.

Linda's freckled cheeks, the feeling of her thick, soft palms against yours, the sound of her gently cracking voice, the tug of your heart into hers. She always called you "hermanita", and it stung as much as it felt like home. You would imagine your lips and lives and bodies smearing into one another like vibrant oils, glimmering under the moonlight. And of course, she didn't have her "queer awakening" until years later, and by then you'd long drifted down separate bends of the river. It feels good to feel her spirit while standing here on it pier. [[Text her, "I miss you."]] [[Send her a photo of the pier.]] [[Send her a flirty selfie you took while lying on the shore.]] [[Wish her soul well and leave it alone.]]

You draw your phone from your left rear pocket, then type a message. //Linda! It's been a minute, hasn't it? Do you remember that time we were hocking loogies from the top of that big fir tree on the northeast corner of Acrimony Point Park and one landed on that parking cop's head? Crazy! We got so lucky, haha. Well, I was just thinking about that and about how much I miss you! You'll always be really special to me. Anyways! I hope you're well and that you're still making your collages! Send some pics of what you've been working on. :) Xo// [[Hit send.]] [[Change your mind.|Wish her soul well and leave it alone.]]

You pull out your phone and swipe through your recent photos. Hmmm... too sexy, probably... you look kind of sad in this one... this one is so blurry ([[what is that behind you???]])... Okay, this one feels pretty good. Mildly coy, some skin, but feels natural to send to an old friend. [[Send the flirty photo.]] [[Send the sad photo.]] [[Send the sexy photo.]] [[Send the blurry photo.]] [[Change your mind|Wish her soul well and leave it alone.]]

You wander along the pier following the sweet smell of hot fried dough and powdered sugar, and find yourself at the top of a [[steep, narrow staircase]] descending into a blue-green blackness below. There is a [[faint echo of a tune]] whistling up from the depths.

Your mind scans itself for a moment then settles on the nearest match: //I'm Popeye the sailor man! I live in a garbage can! I love to eat spinach, it's part of my lineage, which nobody can deny! And nobody can deny, and nobody can deny! I love to eat spinach, and pound back a Guinness, a jolly good fellow I certainly am that I am!// Something about that feels wrong, but you let it go and return your attention to the teasing scent of deep fried heaven.

You begin the descent, careful to place your feet at the center of each step. Of course, the old rotting planks grumble and wheeze beneath your weight as you [[make your way downward]].

You bow your head and softly sing a song you learned when you were very young. You don't remember who taught it to you, but you remember [[their eyes]]. //Oh, here I know just what I am with my weathervane, intact and at roost in the center of my ribcage. I feel the wind blow at my back, and I take a step in rhythm and land in the butterfly horizon. Oh, aching grace of kingdom come, as it rises up, alive and unbound in the everlasting moment. Oh, here I am, and here I'll be, 'til here retreats into the briny, abalone sea.//

You continue down the stairs for what feels like an hour, finally reaching [[solid ground]]. You hear waves sloshing above you. Your gut seems to tense at each wave's climax, then release as the wave melts back into its mother. It is surprisingly dry in here. It is [[too dark]] to see anything. The whistled tune is very loud here. The smell of funnel cakes is also quite potent. Your mouth waters.

You feel comforted by the heavy darkness. Your jaw relaxes, and your eyebrows soften. Your breath slows, lengthens, and deepens. You are suddenly aware that your bladder is full. [[Feel around for... whatever is around you.]] [[Let the sensations bloom.]] [[Relieve yourself.]]

You reach out

You lift your foot and a hermit crab scampers out of the resulting divot in the sand. It looks up at you, wearing an expression which appears to you to be a synthesis of disappointment and anger. //Why did you step on me?//, it seems to say. //I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to.// //No, but nonetheless I have a headache now, and you've made me fall way behind on my plans to show this rock to my family.// It holds up a small seashell as proof, a dry scowl dominating its face. //I wish I could go back in time and change things, but I haven't accessed that ability yet. Also, I think that's a seashell, actually.// Its eyes grow wide and its jaw juts violently forward. //FIRST YOU STEP ON ME AND NOW YOU HAVE **THE NERVE** TO CRITICIZE MY RHETORIC? SHAME, SHAME. MAY YOU FEEL TENFOLD THE PAIN YOU HAVE CAUSED ME. I TAKE MY LEAVE NOW IN IMMENSE DISPLEASURE.// It places the rock on its head and scurries off. Well, then.