It's the Atlantic: that perpetual widescreen roil, salt taste wafting in, and the clouds are fine ripples of unwound cotton. I am standing on pink sand, looking out over the ocean for the first time in what must surely be a decade, marveling at the vista, as a toothpick-thin, perfectly vertical geyser erupts out of the horizon.
Whale spume, I think, as the eruption spreads in an upwardly-rising coil of smoke, billowing outward.
Missiles, I realize, as the ICBMs begin their dispersal, contrails flowering into crystalline horror. Nuclear missiles? There is nowhere to go, I explain to myself, my mind's voice steady but barely heard beneath the increasing wind. Idly wondering where they will fall. Idly wondering, whose fault was this?
