You’re a lackluster, novice, trickle-down-truther investor. And you’re never going to own your own island in your lifetime. That breeze you see on hotel and airfare booking commercials – that vacant Hawaii with no one on the beach, that inaccurate representation – that breeze is only to be experienced in dreams, or on a particularly warm, non-humid day, your face in front of a table fan, releasing “ahhhhs” through the circular shape, so that they sound robotic and vibrato-ish. An island is a mythological tortoise’s back. At any moment, he could pop up and send earthquakes. And who’s to say this chap didn’t know dinosaurs, didn’t chat with brontosauruses, as they lazily ate leaves from tall trees? Something terrifying about The Land Before Time and these English speaking dinosaurs. Guess the education system must’ve been really something. Taking the piss out of everything. Coconuts fall and abide by gravity’s laws as we hit our head against the trunks of their trees, trying to figure out how to open. Hot sand and a thick, dense forest. The creatures hide in the day and come out at night. The water is tranquil, but the ocean floor is cut up with conch shells, and sharp, broken coral and litter that never surfaced – or sank to the bottom.