Humans play thoughtlessly upon the edge of great waters, even the one called “death”.
Twenty-three years old, though, and while everything was done thoughtlessly, those waters had, frankly, come to look pretty inviting.
January morning, bitter cold, a storm due in. Walking, walking, mile after mile. Another year ahead, another seemingly pointless year. Thinking, at least, things couldn’t get worse.
Things can almost always get worse.
But for a day, a few hours, an agreement was reached with that large ocean: that while there is a season we have to go in, that season had not yet arrived.