I think I find one of the most random things I miss the most are the black horizons of the beaches in Mount Pleasant. After the sun's gone down and the endless ocean stretches out beyond what I could conceive as vast, it all turns pitch black with no variations or compass to 5 inches from your face to 500 miles. It's truly staring into an abyss of nothing, with only distant stars to set apart the sky from the sand and horseshoe crab husks lying at your feet. Here, inland, there's always the dark grey sky set against the black outline of trees or hills or houses, all of which seem far enough away not to touch, but close enough to reach out and almost be there. It's all attainable and nothing to dream about.

I miss the vast nothing shrouded in mystery and fear and unknowing peril. I want to fall into it and feel my stomach clench when I don't know how I'll make it out alive.

And I also miss the company that brought me back to the world I'd known when the big black threatened to swallow me up with one little gulp.

It was the last time I felt I was where I belonged and I truly don't know why.