I’m on the beach. It’s night. The wind is still as loud as I remember it. Somehow I know I’m not really here. It’s just a nocturnal deception of closed eyes. But I walk to the sea. The skin on my feet feels repulse with the shock of the cold water, the bitterness of September’s Pacific revisited. The wind so strong I feel it wishes to take my hair off my head. With only a sliver of a moon, my eyes can barely see the rough surface of the beach dirty with debris nature-made. As I wince again with another gelid splash of salt water on my ankles, I observe a knowing state in my lucidity: not one of those I stood with on these beaches is here. The dream maker has brought me to the beaches I have not touched since I was a child, alone. And though I know nothing as certain, they feel as ancient travelers who traveled by sea who were never seen again. If there is a soul who makes these dark worlds and locks me inside them, I would find them and hold them under this cold September Pacific till their skin turned blue.