Through Houston in a slow flash, the sprawl goes on and on and on, and finally over the causeway to Galveston Island. Paradise city, The Strand, and all the BOI's. Born On Island, disconnected from the start. Like the local pirates Walter Kennedy and Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard, disconnected from the start.
The smell of sea. Gets all over, the nature of elements. Water, sand, wind, salt, mixed with marine life, and death. Ocean birds get their eats, elusive predators, coasters, gliders. Quick and chirpy.
Beach house colors, bright and proud, on stilts, ready for the inevitable hurricanes of some future late summer. When the Gulf Of Mexico heats up, when the fierce storms get whipped up in the Atlantic and make their way past the Caribbean Islands. There they cook in a tropical oven, there they bake. Round and round the weird, peaceful eye, the outer bands of floods and twisters, like a loud voice announcing the destruction. Laughing down Seawall Boulevard.