It is the first week of January 2012 and I find myself sitting on a stool, typing away on my laptop which sits atop a plain white wooden table, glancing every once in a while at three other big monitors on tables on my left and right in front of me, music playing, while people walk up and down the wooden steps of this urban minimalist office I happened to have found myself in this Londony afternoon (read: umbrellas) – contemplating on some statements slash accusations hurled at me on the phone by some Neanderthal (oops livin high and yu-uh, takin it easy). Strangely enough, this office reminds me of some bar called S. Yes, bright white lights and walls and bookcases (real or imagined) always remind me of offices. Maybe that is the reason why I wouldn’t want to hang out at Bar S. Who wants to hang out at the end of a work day and still feel like you’re still at the office? Regardless of who owns this bar or that bar, I have a predisposition for dim lights.

A predisposition to never be that exposed, but maybe only by a tad? A desire to not be too seen, to be there, but not really be there, a choice to be social or anti, aloof or otherwise. Yes, dim lights.

What am I doing here, really? I’m here because the beach is here. The beach is calling me (cue in: All Saints’ Pure Shores). Arriving at the grand terminal two nights ago, with the weather comparable to that of windy, rainy, minus snowy, Chicago in February, with my evergreen everbright big backpack heavier than mine and Lia’s combined weight and an overnight bag packed with all that I might ever need, including cottonbuds, I asked myself that question. What am I doing here really?

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