It’s something to watch the sun disappear behind the sea. To feel the actual gravity of our situation in this expiring momentum. Seven miles to the horizon and then another ninety-three million to the ball of fire behind it, but it doesn’t look like it. It looks the opposite. The sun feels tiny and innocuous, all stationary and dependable; the sea appears cosmic, its surface tumultuous, but the surge and suck of the tide remind you of its invincible rhythm. It’s May and a full moon happens to be setting in the west, too. It’s huge and bright. It feels close, like you might grab your surfboard and paddle out to it, pull yourself up to it, and spend the night there. Then, just like that, the sun has vanished, the moon is half-way out of sight, and stars begin to dot the deep blue gradient of approaching night. You stare because it’s not rude to stare at stars. In the cool darkness that follows, colors and smells from the day flare up in one last brilliant gasp. The intonation of a phrase resonates against a leftover sensation from the day’s gentle blue sky, a lost cumulus wanders south through your limbic system, and you remember the way it felt when they said it, but that’s not enough, you want to know it. It occurs to you that nothing hardly ever feels the way it could, how there’s so much missing and everything is disappearing. Then, that’s it. The sea goes suddenly quiet in the dark. You can’t tell if we’re still moving. A mist of oleander and aloe obscures the stars. A train zips by on the cliff above and you make yourself a promise.