I rocked back and forth upon the cylinder that was the interim summit of the large piece of driftwood. The beach was under less than a foot of water which made it that much more tragic, despite the current conditions, it had almost managed to hang on. Without a proper cushion, my tailbone infuriated my lower spine by forcing the bones to unnaturally bend. Looking once more at the beach, I supposed that everything had its season. At least the sea was clear which made the sand pink and shaded the water yellowish-brown, perhaps even golden. In the wind, I felt the weight of my feet preparing to snap the black limbs that came together forming my sturdy seat. Much like being atop an aging uncle, I hoped that I could easily be bucked if I was beginning to weigh too much. I lifted my legs and curled my kneecaps into to my stomach, stopping short enough to be able to balance a tray of food, if there had been the need to do so. The railroad tracks were still above ground, and still barely dry, but they lead towards the wet unknown, it seemed that everything was angled in that direction. No matter the symbolism, they would one day be slimy and beautifully wrapped in seaweed and other naturally occurring stages of decay. I was a few pounds over 200, in all accounts, the word physique could be used in sentences that contained my name. I shifted once more, straightening my legs until I felt my entire weight in my lower abdominals. There was no lighthouse nor ships nor pods nor schools. Discomfort did not always lead to dramatic imagery or literary escape. I adjusted once more, and sat perfectly straight and I felt able to eat again, should the opportunity present itself. Carefully, I lowered my feet into the cool water, just because I was not braced by solid ground, did not mean that I was exempt from stumbling too.