The sound of the waves on the shoreline, echoing deep into the night. He sits alone in his hotel room listening, sweat collecting on his back, the blasting tops of the waves illuminated by moonlight in his mind’s eye.
“It’s a hard way to make a living,” Otis Redding says, a momentary tune singing in the back of his mind as he wanders down a crowded street. The clouds hang low in the sky so that he is dim in the pull.
Later, a breath of cigarette smoke and laughter, dissolve into the night.
Sometimes he awakens in a sweat, the darkness in the room like the sea. His dreams have him floating through a murky wake, the light of only the moon seen clearly, almost near enough to reach, so that he stretches his arms up, a desperate clawing feeling rising in his throat as he sinks further. Even awake, as he stares around the empty room, he can still feel himself sinking and the moonlight disappearing.