A predawn desire to leave everyone and everything in the churning pool of busyness and go off by oneself and plunge deep into the ever darkening sea is broken by the little girl’s upset stomach, the news related by the little boy, who comes in to your room to let you know, the salt air still on your lips. So you settle them on the couch blue as the Caribbean under a big black and red blanket with minute marks that resemble the tiniest of sea creatures, or the kind of ethereal floating shapes you tend to encounter on the borders of consciousness. And the day goes on.

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