Finally emerging onto the beach at midnight with the rain pouring down,

one lone pocket of stars shining through the densest grey (because an 'e' sounds so much greyer than an 'a,' Shelley and I agree), the wind howling at our backs making red streamers fly from my lit cigarette while Shelley thrusts the bottle of wine into my cool clammy hands so to turn head first into the sand and cartwheel twice, while every pore quickly filled with rain-sea-sand-smoke-and residual snot (though quickly cleansed or numbed by repeated swigs of sweetly nostalgic then thickly medicinal then slower wine) I turned my head to the steady crashslushwhisper of the waves and felt too awed or foolish to say "everything's going to be all right."