My skin is warm with the echo of the sun. I wonder if breathing with the trees and tide is something I can teach, or if it happens when your born here or when you grow up here? And the thing is it isn't so different than moving and breathing with the heart beats of the city millions. My tan feels and looks like someone else's skin, but at least my soft fruit bruises are less obvious which is good for easing general commentary even if these slight grays on light brown are so unfamiliar after becoming familiar with my purplish-black bloom against white laced with pale blue. I reread old words I thought I understood to make sure I got it right; apparently maybe this time I may have just stumbled into doing something right. Perhaps there is a cache of words I could now address, October or two to be sure. Sleep wonders away as it has for hours. I wander after it, trying to court it nonchalantly instead of pleading. She would only laugh mockingly anyway.