I. One in the morning, Trinity Bight.

Past midnight in Trinity East, the main road is almost completely black in places on nights without stars. Of these nights there are many. It is not difficult to wander off the road and find yourself suddenly inches away from smacking into a tree placed conveniently right at the spot where the gravel shoulder meets the land. It is dark, dark, dark–A dark you don’t know when you’re accustomed to the city. A dark that is hard forget once you’ve spent time in it. Until you find yourself walking around alone in the deepest hours of the morning. If you’re home and expecting someone, you leave a light on.

This dark is quiet. Often the trudge of your shoes on the ground is the only thing that echoes through it. A softly closing door. the flick of a lighter. Nocturnal wildlife. The occasional vehicle, audible from a great distance, direction easily placed with plenty of time to meander to the side of the road before they approach you. Nocturnal people. Close to the water, the splash of the waves, barely at all some evenings, other evenings a sound far rougher at it’s edges.

Nothing at all. A fog horn. Whatever is inside your head.

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