It's getting dark now, and the lights have flickered to life on the pier. But it's not night yet. The stars aren't out, and the sun's glow is still lingering deep orange on the horizon. The ocean's a rippley blue lake reflecting the sky. And it's cold. An LA chill that just barely bites through my thin pull-over. There's three middle-aged maritime seamen singing songs and playing a beat-up old stained-wood guitar. This end of the pier is an Eden to them. This dry spring Christmas weather. They love it, but only because it's something new and incredible to them. They're not from here. They don't love it like I do. These numb fingers is not a braving for them. Moving across the page with a graphite trail in tow. And I feel like their moving is keeping me sane.
