Sea gulls flocked in footstep formation on the fog-swallowed Oregon coast, whose bleak nihilistic monochrome dusk soon cracked open with the kind of sunset wound that only divinities can inflict upon a dark sky to cast their redeeming light across even darker sand. Both of us were there to witness the rapture, shaking and quaking like underground tremors bent on becoming tsunamis. The tide was low, but soon it would rise, so we rang the alarm and took to the hills. Then the moon appeared through the open wound to light our way out of it.
