Wasn’t feeling just sitting, so went How about we walk.

Roomie bro was down.

Dried-out grass up by where the houses were, in clumps. A low fence running along it. Little openings leading to the road.

Clumps of families all over that blended together. White, occasionally overweight families, mostly—although that wasn’t what I thought, looking at them, just what I think of now tryna remember them. Tryna describe them. Progressively more activity the closer to the water you got. Sand firmer, darker, more solid the closer to the water. Too much water and it got muddy and then you couldn’t see it anymore. The sweet spot was where water met sand. That lil sweet spot stretch—

You’re about this sweet spot stretch. You walk along it, even though it’s where the kids you feel you appear a menace to to moms are. Even though the rest are walking higher up on the beach, just above the slight plateau that marks where the highest tide reaches. Doing your loner, off-on-your-own thing, but whatever. You’ve always been on that. Only with her were you not. But then it became about her having to be on that with you, in order to be with you. Till she wanted to be off with others and not on that off-on-your-own alone shit with you. She told you read Hannah Arendt that Hannah Arendt was the antidote to your Heidegger off-on-your-own alone shit. You tried. You did try.

You keep following this water’s edge and you’ll be OK. Too far either way and you’re fucked. You want to record this somehow. To not forget it. You’d write it down but you’re too stoned and anyway you’re walking. You double tap outta Notes. Switch to Camera. Start taking photos, one after another, even though each is a Live Photo so is already a series. You’ve gotta catch every angle of every wave. Every new iteration. Every photo isn’t quite it, but maybe the next will be. You stop after about twelve. Nine months later, you delete all of them to free up space on your phone.