That night, standing on the cliff listening to the ocean and smoking a joint, watching the blinking ships moving down the coast, he wonders what it would feel like to fall. To step off the edge and plunge into the traffic below. And he knows that he has come too far. He flicks the roach into the wind, flaring like a dying lightning bug. A last breath of foggy air, he turns and walks away. Back into the city, back to from where he came. He thinks of these places he’s been, these things he’s said and heard and done. And he wants to wander grassy plains, to watch clouds move through the sky like battle groups, to sleep on hills rolling gently towards the nothingness of horizon. Wants to be far from this restless sea, this shifting land, these filthy streets. Never to return. Never to find himself west of the mountains, east of the river again. There are some barriers you were not meant to cross.