I thought to myself.
The November sun was high and winked through cumulus clouds that looked like breasts full of milk.
I should be in Sea Isle with a sky like that.
In Sea Isle you know where you stand.
Day, Night, Ocean, Land.
You can keep your beer cool when you're on the jetty by tethering it inside a basin of water that collects between the rocks.
Crab cakes and flounder fried in sticks of butter, and so much beer and sand you begin to feel like you may have been that young university post graduate researcher traversing the Levant in another life during your brief walk from 57th to 53rd. The wind snaps through your hair.
"You better get up now."
"I'm coming."
Get up. Sit down. Eat. Shave. The cycles of odious tasks. I blink and sit up straight.
A half a pot of cold coffee.
I try to fire up the Fire Arrow but something in the Otto cycle isn't giving me the juice.
The man we got this car from said that there had been wasps in the filler neck of the fuel tank.
He got them out though.
Wasps.
I light a cigarette. The world is run on tiny deflagrations.
Every Day.
Every Second.
I cut the hedges.
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