The sun is setting. The sky is afire; golds, burnished bronze, bright pinks. It is bright.

The wind is on my skin; the hairs on my arms tickle as they stand upright in the chilled embrace. It is cold.

The waves crash upon the shore, the ocean never ceasing in her secret whispers to the land. It is loud.

The wind has laid salt upon my lips; I taste it without seeking it. It is invasive.

The smell of fish & chips is in the air, calling to my taste buds and nauseating my stomach. It is persistent.

It is tactile, [When your imaginary life is interrupted unapologetically by your real one|real and unavoidable]. It demands my [Usage determines meaning|interaction], my attention.

[Those who look for meaning in the world are like travellers seeking wood in the shade of a forest|I think I'd rather see this on TV], kept safe behind glass, powered off when I'm done. I think I'd rather be [But they're entertaining lies, and in the end, isn't that the real truth?|in control], accustomed to the four blank walls of [time has no meaning here|my room]. I think I'd rather be disengaged, separate, impartial, [It turns out wanting something doesn't make it real|uncaring].

I think I'd rather be [we will tear the world apart until it is nothing but fragments, and meaning will cease|isolated].

[What is best in life?|Alone.]