The waves are flat, dead, where the wind laps across, skimming and dancing over the grey concoction of salt and water. The sky is clear, yet it still appears somewhat grey through the crystal blue of the gaping hole into space. The fresh air is just about all I need to enlighten myself through the storm. I know that the worst may be over now, but even through the mist the cranes and the factory funnels and the bright lights of the big smoke creep over the horizon and into my vision. I may feel fully edified, but I can feel the grey clouds, always lurking beyond the estuary and collaborating with the ocean to rain on me when I least expect it.
And now it's twenty nine minutes past midnight on a Friday night and I'm still wearing my jeans. I've finally finished my charcoal of Vickie and things are looking up. As I sit alone, I feel small in this large, tumbling down house, and once again, I want to hunch myself up as tiny as I can get in spite of my size eight skinny jeans and cry.
Isn't she beautiful?