Follow the girl through sandstorms. If you lose her, look for the glint of her porcelain skin beneath sunlight. Follow her up winding streets that lead to the edge of town, where the ocean shines like pulsing glass: hold your breath or the city will steal it. Follow the girl to the beach, and watch the silhouettes of children dancing against the dying sun. Drink in twilight, dream of all the sailors past your horizon, the ones who do not think of you when their eyes are closed. We are crepuscular creatures and we aren’t ashamed, pouring back glasses of red wine beneath moonlight and coming to life as the distant city lights grow. Sit with bare feet buried in the sand with the girl and a French Dharma bum. We’ve always demanded too much. But not now. Now, we want just this.