I have always believed in magic more than logic. Things will move of their own accord, appear and disappear. Statistics don’t persuade me. I haven't yet mastered the art of conjuring.
Out to sea, at the edge of the Gulf Stream. How do we know land is there, in the distance? Only because of others who have come here, who have changed and been changed by it.
Late into the second night, closer to shore. Awake at odd hours, the world continues—distant lights of container ships heavy in the wild current.
Columns of light flash in the loom. I am still thinking of the others who have sailed this way. Pirates and soldiers. Ships crossing the Atlantic from Africa, ready to dislodge their cargo—starving, wracked by the collision of wind and the Gulf Stream—into this new world.