The sort of day when I don’t to be here.

Not any specific here. Here work, here home, here the simple boring mundanities of real life.

I’m picturing a sailboat. A tropical sea, sky. Wind and sun and freedom. Rum. Fruit and fish.

No clothes. No people.

Two of us. Three of us. Whatever. Tan and sweaty, smelling of the sea and the sun, coconut and lime. Smelling of each other.

Water and sun and the breeze. Sound of tropical foliage. Flowers. Birds.

There. I want to be there. Anywhere.

I want to sail a boat with nowhere to go. Watch a beautiful girl sleep in the sun. Make love in the sea. Sleep and live with a rocking that leaves me feeling wrong when I step on dry land.

Nut brown; clothes feeling wrong, when they’re needed. Nothing that needs a plug or a cord, nothing with a screen, nothing with a keyboard.

Where am I? Why would I care.

When will I come back?

There would be no back; only here, now. Smell, taste, touch.

I shall sit and draw a map that leads to nowhere. X marks any spot. Close your eyes, drive a dagger in, that is where we shall sail.

I can smell the rum already.