I don’t know why, but the image has stayed with me across all these years: a dark beach of gray-foamed surf juxtaposed with a tour bus vomiting forth pallid spring breakers. Excited handchatters congregating on rocky jut. Memory in the third-person. Myself sickened at sight of such sugary jubilation and darkly resentful from some long forgotten slight, choosing to feel and see the wind through out-stretched palms. I can’t truly, rightly remember whether it was really nightfall or a scene coloured by my mood. Rude week, luna blue nights, jagged bottleglass fences.