I’m dreaming of a pier. It’s an antiquated, large, wooden structure that stretches out from shore to ocean. It’s desolate there. When you close your eyes, you can hear the lapping of the waves, and the creak and knock of the boards against each other. There is decayed, old rope that still clings to cylindrical logs. It is a school lesson in erosion. Blue waves lazily tumble in the distance and I smell the saltwater biome which boarders on the putrid. When marine life dies it either sinks to the bottom or washes up on the coast. These rough hewn building blocks will surely cause a splinter. So I am careful when I grip the sides. I have to keep my balance while this rickety thing sways. I’m waiting for the sailboat. I’m waiting for a sign. Our humble home port, in dire disrepair. In need of renovation and rebuilding and fresh coat of paint. It is lonesome on the docks today. I am an out of season adventurer, checking my compass as if I have some nervous, navigational tick. I face the East and sigh. No one hears me. I long for strawberry ice cream and a trip to the carnival. But today, I sit and wait for a sailboat that may never come. Storms are destructive and carry many things away. But sometimes things float back. Sometimes they know. Sometimes there are secret compasses hidden in fabric folds and in human souls. It points and directions and tells them where to go. It’s intuition. Some tarot card reading plaintiff, pleading with the judge to make an important life choice. Verisimilitude. Peanuts Characters ‘wah’-ing at walls. I feel my dehydration grip the back of my throat and I swallow and try to ignore it. Devil’s in the details, but I have grown tired. I turn my back on the ocean, and do not see the white sail waving, fluttering.