What’s a ship do when it’s washed ashore? I don’t know. But if it had, I’ve a map for it. I charted the territory. It’s the isle of peace, and though you can’t see it aerially, flattened out as it is, it’s a land of vast contentment.

Underneath those silk black threads on the map are the spools and dolls and things, books and spoons and trunks of treasures tossed overboard once in a storm –anything you ever lost on accident when you were a child, and never found again, it all ends up here.

There are great cliffs for scaling, and trees for climbing, and all the fishes in the tidepools around the sand, too. The days go on forever. The nights are only half as long.

It’s so nice to have such an imagination, to pretend such a land exists. It’s too bad it isn’t true.