Wired on sugar and coffee, we cruise toward the beach, faraway from city and suburb. Past leafless skinny trees entangled with bird-crusted telephone wire, we wind round road on cliffs bordered by tiny surfing communities stocked with Venezuelan oil heiresses, abandoned broken-fenced farms, and palatial houses that look even lonelier with their lawns staked For Sale.
I dream in sepia, the color of ago, the prelude to once-upon-a-time.
The high tide comes in, suddenly, lapping my toes as my dream-body wake slowly. Wobbling to my knees, I chase my books and my spectacles as the ocean tries to thieve them. Help, I call out my friend's name, only no one returns the cry.
A book, thick and hardbound, floats near me. Despite the urgency of the moment, I thumb through it. Sans text, the book sings thin serpentine pencil lines. This book was mine, something only I could decipher.
When I wake, I remember that the skies should be milky, the sunset blazing crimson, soon, ignited by the dying trail of what had been an unusually ferocious sandstorm in a desert on the other side of the earth.