Story: a

    It is chilly, but good. There are traces of heat left. I hear the gentle waves of the sea and the lazy cries of the birds above. I open my eyes. 

    There beyond me, the darkened outline of an island in the horizon. 

    The sky, rich with smooth lavender and creamy orange, burning dimly with yellow, until that dying disk cuts through the slit. 

    The horizon is living. And here I sit among the sand and vines, lighting a cigarette, contributing a little piece of me.