“We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. …The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”

I’m sleeping at the beach. (It’s one of the few times I’m convinced to go. And though it’s a scientific fact that I cannot get sunburned, Rhea’s forced me to apply a thick coat of SPF 8 million. In any case, I’m here, dragging too many books, comics, and notepads to make any kind of leisurely affair out of the effort. After exhausting myself in setting up a makeshift office upon strewn towels and lawn chairs, I promptly nod off. I vaguely remember Kyoko whining about some sort of relationship problem to Rhea and hearing Farley say something about building a sand castle though changing his mind and making a generic homicide investigation style outline of a human body.)

Not sure how much time has passed, I awake to Kyoko: “That looks great, Farley!”
I hear a mischievous giggle from way off.

I brush some sand out of my hair and sit up: about 10 feet away from me she is laying there peacefully. Farley’s adding another clump of substance to her hips for good measure. I stand up and realize this woman is easily 12 feet tall. She’s got a stoic yet serene expression and she’s resting at Dockweiler Beach more comfortably than anyone else.

I walk over to where she wasn’t just minutes ago and admire the giddy enthusiasm Farley has for his new maiden. With a quick dash, he’s grabbed some seaweed and applying a healthy dose of au-natural pubic hair to the woman’s crotch and armpits. A flock of on-duty police officers stamp by and smile happily at the creation.

The fervor with which Farley dives into any activity is an infectious one. And while there were numerous escapades throughout July and August while we worked on the Black Cloud, I think a day at the beach and the temporal nature of art feels like a nice homage.