You imagine that you’re really walking on a deserted island. You take a deep breath of the stale sea-smelling air, focus on the left-right rhythm of your footsteps against the metal flooring. You tune out the steamy putt-putt-putt of a carrying warehouse motor and you think about how sand might feel between your toes. A faint wind – the traces of some massive nor’easter close by – tickles the little hairs on your bare legs. In your mind, the burnt tang of spent fuel becomes a bizarre milieu of tropical herbs, and the pitchy croons of the metal beneath your feet become chirping seagulls, the heralds of landfall.
Start over | Go back Settings | View Log (93)