My feet are stained a surprisingly vivid shade of yellow. I do not know where my shoes are, and I do not care. Nothing is happening, and I am altogether separate from the world, isolated. People have been passing me by all day, and I do not feel like I am a part of their world of goals and directions.

The grass here is an irresistible invitation. This entirely unnatural cross weave of near fluorescent astroturf and dying grass allows me the luxury of a warm dry bed, while my feet rest in the amazing coolness of a perfectly square patch of damp astroturf.

The whole field is most likely covered in dog s***, and filth of all kinds, from birds, children, and addicts. Right now I do not care. I have a field to myself. A huge, enormous, sunny field that positively dances with possibility. Everything here is at a turning point, a last moment, and it is all the better for it. I will go home soon. The sun will set soon. Summer will be over soon. It is the moment before the roller coaster goes crashing down, it is the last meal that you savor, it is your last trip before you die. I am going to say goodbye to the peace, and the calm, the serenity, and the pleasure of this place, and soon I will rejoin the crowds, and will have no thoughts but of my obligations, and I am content enough that I do not care. My emotional state is divorced from my thoughts- I have no choice but to be serene here, and even my most fiery thoughts cannot provoke anger or sadness. This should be the goal of every walk.

The sky is a regal and very American shade of purple, the grass is living its last. The air vaguely recalls barbecues and Little League, but most of all it feels like the end of a party, as people drift away, and the air becomes cold. The air here is that of summer, but the heat wavers like a candle's flame, punctuated as it is by gusts of Autumn air. But for now, and only for a few more minutes, everything is okay. Everything.

The sea roars not far away, and the winds off of it battle with the lazy warmth of the field, and the air is in constant turmoil above me, and the sudden cold forces me into the inviting Earth. I melt into the inviting grass and hold on like a housefly.

The Earth holds a warmth, and I close my eyes and sink into it, and feel like my mother is there.

The needles of the starchy grass that should hurt sharply on my bare arms, the chill of the gathering wind, the itch of the stains and scratches I have gathered today that should torment me are numbed beneath my calm, and the Earth seems to sway beneath me.