"Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home."
- Anna Quindlen
Wan sunlight splintered through clouds galloping on the ocean onshore wind; she sat at cafés behind the docks, or across the sea from the strands, reading and writing, and looked up to see whitecaps dashing themselves at the foot of the great lighthouse at the end of the jetty, or up the rocky coast to the north. She walked the beaches. Pale washed blues in the sky behind the tumbling clouds, the bruised blues of the ocean, the whites of cloud and broken wave; she loved the looks of these things, loved them with all her heart. Here she was free to be her whole self. It was worth all the rain to have the air washed so clean.