So you know I lived in this house for the first eleven years of my life, right out there on the Long Island Sound. I spent a lot of time on the strip of beach behind the house, squatting by myself on the dark sand, examining shit: sparkly rocks, in particular—I loved the cellophane-y mica that you could peel off in layers—but also dried seaweed, washed-up condoms, dead eels and horseshoe crabs. One of the things that intrigued me most was the ancient remnant of a dock several yards out in the water: it was a few pylons, really, grey and worn and leaning in odd directions like crooked teeth. Gulls would stand on the pylons, but no one else—there was no way out there: the walkway was long gone. I wanted to go, though.
I always want to go.