Victories.

One page is a victory. In a day that can be spent at the best beach in the United States, exploring the richest parts of the Long Island like I have a real job, reading anything and everything at the Borders in Riverhead that has seen better days, one page can do a soul justice.

I can take that.

Even though the days are numbered here and time can no longer accept one shots. It needs miles.

I need miles.

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“I can’t go on, I will go on!”

(For Diana “WHOA” Gallagher)

At 2am, our feet don’t touch the ground.

John pokes me in the back with a roll of trash bags and curses me something bawdy in Greek. He likely hasn’t slept in days, but his face teems with its usual sass. He looks around for someone/something to sue, but comes up empty like the grassy patch in front of us. Bryan rolls his eyes and hoists his man bag. Yes, we are children, I tell him. I’m 12. We walk past residence halls accustomed to frivolity, weed, and the occasional smattering of school work. Yet, they seem silly now engulfed in looming darkness, unsure of how to behave in the absence of sound.

I poke John again and take off in a run. My speed picks up, though it is unnecessary – his 10 years of cigarettes assure me of victory. The silence gives me wings.

Our laughter echoes in the moonlight and Southampton has never looked so beautiful.