I am walking along on the damp sand close to the water. Random strands of seaweed. The briny air. A cool breeze.

I am between sleeping and waking.

I’m kind of going in a directionless direction – but aren’t we all?

The to-and-froing of the waves, the breathing of the ocean…

I look up and see that the sky is smeared and streaked and blended, orange and pink and purple and blue. Beautiful.

I look along and make out what looks like wreckage…

I hasten my pace and the sand attempts to pull at my feet, slow me down, impede my progress…

In front of me is the shattered and smashed hull of a yacht. Scattered and strewn along the shore’s edge, the boundary between the fluid, the uncertain, and the solid, safe and sure and firm…

I bend down and pick up a length of shattered hull. Hold it in my hands. Turn it over. Examine it.

There is writing, fancy script… a name, a chosen name, and written, painted in gold letters upon pure white is: Destiny’s Bitch.

Destiny’s Bitch. How apt. How karmic. Fate. Cruel fate.

I wonder if anyone has survived.

Destiny’s Bitch.

Yeah, we’re all destiny’s bitch.

I carry on strolling in a kind of disconsolate way…

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