As if magic was but a myth. As if Father Time was truly undefeated. Like we were all stuck in the prison yard of here and now. As if there was no such thing as forever. As if we weren’t allowed to laugh in the dark. And as if there was nothing more than what blandly met the eye, the sorry scraps we force-feed our rods and cones. I am referring, of course, to the edge of the western world. To the places we’ve suspended in disbelief. The smell of the sun. The sound of the salt as it climbs into the sky. And just how short the distance really is between our wild and our wildest dreams.