It was an orange daylight, cascading across a coffee shop he was unfamiliar with. Whenever he looked around, he recognized people from his life. On one side sat a woman he loved, blond, hair flowing across the back of a couch – but she was not alone, and he did not know who she was with – but that did not disturb him. At the bar, he saw another woman he loved, her secret safe in the crowd as she chatted away and laughed as only a Dutch speaking woman could. Another blond woman sat at the other side of the bar, catching his eye she smiles and waves.

He waves back. He's not quite sure how he got here. He's not quite sure what he's doing here, but here he is. He orders a triple espresso as he used to, recognizing the woman who serves it as a failed date from a Son Volt concert – but who remained a friend. There sits Heather, the shy girl in college, and over there is the woman he always wished he had spoken to. And over there, and over there, and...

He now sees the men, recognizing a Professor from his days in college, a Doctor from his days in the Navy, the sane ex-boxer turned 12 string guitarist at coffee shops, the Apache roommate, the midnight bong engineer of the old gang and so many others. So many others.

The blond with the Colombian accent comes over, gives him a hug and walks back to where she sits. He walks over, nodding at the man next to her.

'Hi. So you're with her now?'
'I think so. I'm not sure.'
'She's a good woman.'
'I think so. I'm not sure.'
'She can be a little strange.'
'I think so. I'm not sure.'
'Get sure.'

The unsure man disappears to an uncertain destination. That is what the coffee shop does. It runs on a mix of certainty and uncertainty, of meaning and lack of it. Because of this, it could sit still in Time, a phantom of the conscious.

She asks him why he's here. He looks at her. She leans forward, kissing him deeply and holding him close so that his nose is where she deposits her perfume. She smells good, and she knows that. She again asks him why he's here. He doesn't consciously know, but answers, "When you inhale so deeply of Life that it chokes you, it is time to move on."

The room disappears.

It is Texas now, but it looks like New York City. He's in an apartment that seems like home, but the windows seem to be a storefront. A phone call. A friend is missing, other friends are worried. He recalls the combination to his locker and opens it, searching for his boots. He cannot find them.

An old BMW with a Pizza Delivery sign screeches up in front. A rotund man with glasses shouts, "I have your boots. Come on, let's go find her!"

The light scatters off the wet concrete and asphalt as they speed through the night.

'Who are we looking for?'
'I thought you knew.'
'I thought you knew.'
'But you do have my boots.'
'Yes, they're under the seat.'
'Is it her again?'
'I think so.'
'You love her.'
'So do you.'
'Yeah.'

Silence. He turns around and drops him off, but the world is different again. It is the coffee shop. The light filtering through the glass is rose, the highlights chase the spectrum as they touch other glass.

This time, everyone gets up and the balding ex-boxer steps forward and asks, "Why do you keep coming back?"
"I got dropped here."
"Why did you leave?"

Everyone in the coffee shop turns and asks the same question with their eyes.

"Why did you leave?"

"Because," he responds, "sometimes the right thing to do is go on."

"If it was the right thing to do, why are you here?"

"I think maybe I missed you."

"Then why did you leave us?"

"When you inhale so deeply of Life that it chokes you, it is time to move on."

The room disappears.

The weight of air in a cool room awakens him, his toes twirl against the sheets and he stretches. The ceiling is familiar, and it occurs to him that he had been dreaming. Recalling the dream, he realized he had been shipwrecked, a castaway from his old life, a survivor of the seas of dreams and a builder of castles in the sand.

He started a fire, and wrote a few lines on the beach along the waterline.

'That's the trouble with a good beach view. At it's whim, the tide makes sure that you have to start over...'