Sunrise, when prepared for, always takes an eternity. The sky warms for what feels like ages. In this time, two options spring forth: either the horizon changes almost imperceptibly quickly or the mind, unhinged with anticipation, creates in the yet unborn new day a depth hitherto unknown. The lifeguard stand a perfect vantage point. Waiting, then all at once the sphere pours forth, tipping forward and rushing across the ocean to greedily shock out new shadows. Ten minutes later the sun hangs inches above the horizon. Now in the foam and clear sheen where shore and water meet, the sun’s simulacrum lives out a proto-sunset: the foam briefly purples and the water pitches black. This drifts away, and the magic contained therein sings past the dunes to a fledgling forest, which, as I walk through, is pierced by the dune-crested sun. The divine angles of light dance with the shadows, giving an ethereal glimpse of living water, which later foments in me a deep depression. Time is poison, freely igniting ecstasy-tinged agony.