The light from the porthole is quite clear today, the garden I see is a memory of what it used to be thirty years ago; for all I know, they may give paved over and painted the lawn it green. Styrofoam trees and plastic flowers, and there is no need for a gardener.
Do I hear raindrops falling? Is it getting darker or is it rats scratching to get at my inert flesh? I have been dreaming of rain for thirty years, a tropical deluge foam on the sea, flashing lights, under; each man froze in a frame, no thoughts everyone only absorbed by the eye of the storm. When the storm passed the deck was cold to walk on, a new clarity of ideas before routinely begins. When we reach the shore, I will leave this ship to climb a mountain, to experience everything anew. I’ve waited for rain and the eye of the storm to come and make me whole and young again.