Virginia Woolf writes that “one must, one always must, do something or other,” though also, in the same essay, she writes, “to escape is the greatest of pleasures.” In other words, escape as liberation. To be free from what binds us with the daily occupation, and becomes necessity: work, money, electric bills, the trash. So first, in my own recent flight, a gray sky with warm rain. The sand. And waves big like they could kill. In an almost half moon, palm fronds marked the air, struck grass, not charged at all, but the sand, when we touched it with our fingers, glittered. I saw radiance. An upsurge. Perhaps there isn’t a feeling as justified as liberation. On the ledge, between the fish and the bowl, I could elope, depart, retreat, if I watched the street in its busy employment, and no one knew I minded them, as in the way we sneak glances at those we attract. Avenue Palomar and later, the dizzying effect of liquid and doses, the swirling fan making shadows like thieves. Also free. I couldn’t make contact. Still, I know with my legs open and the lights on, I cried something that felt like liberation. You can’t feel passionately about a street. But I did. With my friend yearning. My friend crying. They all tell me what their lives are. And I want to be beautiful in their representation and mine. Woolf said, “It is impossible that one not see pictures,” as in he’s doing the dishes, as in I’m dancing, and still we’re free, only for a moment, then gone. As quick as bare feet on stones. Do you record the pieces or step aside and move on?