When a curtain that is a door moves with the trade winds blowing through the windows, I think it is a small person hurrying from one place of hiding to the next. I live among ghosts. People come and go, paddles and hands in the water and out again. A shadow in the sun, here they were.

Oh, the things I consider. I make a list:

hell and high water, and I choose neither; unless the water is pretty
dogs
the strength of character and tough feet
big dipper
frangipani caterpillars
Einstein's Dreams, always, by Alan Lightman; especially the chapter about houses on stilts on mountains
that odd feeling after climbing up high and resting, and looking out, over, below; and wanting to jump because flight seems incredibly possible
likewise, the need to keep swimming once one has left shore
likewise, paddling into the wind into open sea, and never wanting to look back to land
self made cancer