Midnight. On the tenth beer of the week of drinks. Exhausted to death and worked to the bone and satisfied yet seized by a need to leave. Standing on the seawall looking outward and hearing the lap of the gentle wake against. The oceaned air and Moon nocturne and Sunday morn. Anticipating sunrise and new day and the unfamiliar and the dream and the next and next and nextest beer.
This is great. If only because it somehow manages to grasp some sense of the way I feel when I think of home.
“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (via lostsplendor)