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    I remember waking up to the screech of seagulls around noon, top bunk. Sunshine poured in through the windows. I fumbled for my glasses amidst the bed sheets and grains of sand throughout them. Half awake, and often slightly hung over, I would look down to see all three of your faces. Still asleep, like the lazy teenage girls you are. I carefully crept down from the top bunk, into the plethora of clothes, makeup, tampon wrappers, and damp bikinis that were scattered across our bedroom carpet. This is how I would wake up when I was happy.

I've seen way too many remains of pine needles on the ground. The pathway to the beach is littered with them; even if you use a bike, some will inevitably stick to your wheel, hopefully rubbed off by you riding the bridge that crosses the dunes and leads to shore. At this point you brush it off, literally and figuratively. You brought your soda here, you're going to drink it. The stars will be out soon.

I said something to you the other night while everyone else on the island was asleep -- I suppose I was halfway there, because I'm not sure if it was all a dream. Something about the ocean -- we both agreed to breathe underwater. It was something about love but that's such an abstract concept that my memory remains unclear. 

Oh, yes. It was love. That was the thing. I used to use the saltwater in my soup as hearty broth, the calcium-rich remains of crustaceans strengthening my brittle bones. -- now it just stings my tongue. Have you ever ripped the wings off of a butterfly? I haven't because I was never a psychopath. I know that millions of plankton eat me alive every time I drink that ocean so I've left the deep blue. Now it's all the same. The sun rises but I don't tend to sync up with it in the morning.

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