A few predictions

I'm not often wrong when I do make predictions, so I'll paint a picture now as the days roll by: a quiet beach with no one on it, the kind you see in pictures and wonder how there is still a place that remote in a world so developed, where the sand is fine and the palm trees come right up to the water and when it is dark you listen to the waves and look up and see real stars; rain that comes frequently and out of nowhere, one minute absent and the next minute blurring the sky, drifting in fast from the water and disappearing as fast as it came; turtles that come on shore in the night to lay their eggs and mellow stray dogs without a care in the world napping right in the middle of rural roads and curious little monkeys screeching up in the trees, jumping from branch to branch; sprawled out on a swinging chair, head resting in a lap, kindles, paperbacks, notebooks, the sun warming everything it touches; intertwined legs on a towel, drunk off something, talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking; not wanting to go to bed at night because you do not want the night to end, and not wanting to get up in the morning because you do not want the morning to end; an overwhelming hard to describe protection instinct, wanting to keep something safe and okay and maybe even yours, and wanting it to see the things you see and enjoy.

So the days keep rolling by, July, August, and September, in a steady way, where you aren't gasping for breath or making giant leaps of faith, nothing radical, outlandish, or improbable, but just putting one foot in front of the other, like each step is the most natural thing in the world, even if those steps stop tomorrow and even if they wander on forever.