Flotsam was spewn along the beach as if from a vessel sunk in the prime of its life.
I reaped an image here, the specter of a voice there, hauling them up a cliff's steep
path to the driftwood shack's ravenous empty oil drum stove.

Summer here felt like
winter anywhere else.

Last night I dreamed of meeting my old friend John (which is his name). But, John,
I said, You died. I cured myself, echoed through a hollow grin.

Balancing between worlds, nature never really was separate from human society; it
appeared untouched only to those who did not know, or did not want to know what's
"shrouded in mist and cloud."