A personalized retreat.

To start, you make your­self a sand­wich. You hold it like a foot­ball, stand in the wind, and win­now the meat from the cheese, let­ting both fall limp to the sand. This is to acknowl­edge your kin­ship with the wilted kelp, which also falls that way.

Done with greet­ings and offer­ings, you set the table, face North, admit day­light and dis­cover a knob. It seems like snare, but the gods aren’t here to trap you; not today. The knob gives heat.

You put on your glasses and tuck a crowd of feath­ers behind your left tem­ple. Now blow the man down.

There is no hot water, so you float tea bags in old rain pud­dles. You’re deter­mined to see this thing through, alone. You won’t drop your skirt for any­one tonight, though you might lift it over your head and make eyeholes.

The waste bas­ket is empty—there, you’ve done it! A first beau­ti­ful line. You unfold the futon and wait. A dis­ease in the feath­ers catches your ear.

You walk out­side. It’s so dark it doesn’t seem worth it, but you think again and go inside to get the broom. You bring it out and sweep the ground, which sounds dif­fer­ent than the floor. The ground is like cracked bar­rels, and isn’t that why you came here in the first place?

You imag­ine the broom tracks in the morn­ing, like a visit from teething whales. This gives you the willies and you stop sweep­ing. Instead, you plan your morn­ing and, while you’re at it, the rest of your life. You plan to live only on apples, and on the charm of apples. That should take care of what­ever this 24 hour retreat does not.

At some point you put on sweat­pants. If your waist wanted to touch things at the stars’ radius, well bloom­ing hell, it could. Sweat­pants aren’t giv­ing, just more per­mit­ting. The rest of your clothes are fine.

In one repeat­ing motion, you make a chair with your body then try to sit on your­self. After you’ve made your­self hun­gry, you know it’s time to go.