It's a cold October night, and the bone white light of the full moon is shining on the chilly sand. Under the Steeplechase pier lies what's left of an old carpet, beautiful hand woven Arabesques, stick figures of desert animals, its hems unravelling and blending with the all forgiving sand and shells.
And you're sitting on the carpet, wishing the world would explode tonight, wishing the sand would leak in between the threads, wishing that taste in your mouth were something other than sand, and cum, and old beer. Wishing you could just fly off into the heavens, and forget all this bullshit.
You can....and I'll be happy to hold your hand.
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