From the Golden Gate to the Sea of Trees, or Between 35 and 37
Standing on the beach, he looked up to watch passersby on the bridge and fixed on a shadow paused at the railing. Widows and orphans weep on either side of the Pacific. The desperate march on pilgrimages instinctively to these hallowed gallows, like lemmings driven to migrate against their better angels, and offer themselves on Death’s altar. They take leaps of faithlessness into icy waters and plant themselves like saplings in a dark wood where whispers and prayers carry too short in the dense air and only the tearing of their flesh will give them voice. The ocean is cursed.