Looking across the harbour, feeling as if it's all a small scale model. I can pick up the skyscrapers and drop them into the sea. I can reach over to the shore and peek in the roof of Home, see Mom making dinner and Dad sitting down with homebrew.

How easy the ride home is and how fresh the air is with anticipation of rain. My chain's squeaky dry, but I can drown it out with music. Music. The city rolls by like a montage. Full of smells of cooking suppers, damp leaves, salty shores.

The mountain tops light up with white trailing webs. Street lights flick on one-by-one in front of me, as if I'm racing a shadow home.

I'm diving into the woods like every other day. Exactly the same, repeat, repeat, repeating trees, soggy trails rolling over and over.

I feel like I'm pretending to be happy because it goes against what is supposed to be. I don't know how you cannot be happy when everything around you is so perfectly constructed. I only wish for more hours in the day and for more friday nights.

No, I have one more wish: a warm warm incoming tide thrashing with whitecaps and lungs full of air.