Last year started and ended with broken storylines. Lovers to dust. I found myself in strange, unchartered geography. Planned trajectories went feral on me. I was so desperate for meaning I took to hurling my body into crashing waves, half-hoping, perhaps, I would hit my head on the bottom of the ocean and emerge with The Truth on my lips. The waves bucked me off relentlessly, but I’ve learned nothing other than how to avoid calamity, turtling myself under a wave, or worst-case scenario, when slapped down by the palm of the sea, how to protect my soft mussel cranium from a surf-board-turned-missile. Maybe that’s the extent of what I’ve learned to be true: the waves are endless and indifferent to whether you’re up, or down, or somewhere in between.