I find I can’t get that beach out of my head lately.  I don’t know what to do.  My hands ache mysteriously.  Have I been typing more lately?  Yes, I can’t stop.  I want to go back.  That is the truth.  

A single star looked down on her, sitting on the hillside with her arms wrapped around her legs.  Silent.  Somewhere behind her a dog’s bark echoed through the darkness.  Before her rolled the ocean, the waves slapping against the rocks with a fierce backhand.  Below her the splintered rocks lay quietly in the night air.  A lonely seagull gave a final cry from a far ledge.  

This is my favourite place in the world, she said one night while stumbling below a full moon.

It’s strange to think, her friend replied, stepping across the wide rocks with long legs. That the world is made up of favourite places. (Let’s Hear That String Part Again, Because I Don’t Think They Heard It All The Way Out In Bushnell from Come On Feel The Illinoise)

I can’t get over Sufjan Stevens either. (But it’s a good thing)