He woke up with a start. He couldn’t trace back how he got there. There was sand in his ruffled hair and his white shirt was crumpled. The saltiness of the sea gave him goosebumps, and the warm water tickled his feet. He was always a Sting kind of a guy. Rave parties and blackouts, Ecstasy and electronic music were never his things. It made him happy, 'the hundred million bottles washed upon the shore.'.
There are nights when I can't sleep. A tune that I'd known so well plays in my head and I just can't figure it out. I decide to step out. I hear the sea before I see it. I wander into the farthest corners of my brain, and en-route, I stumble across those dark sheets of thoughts that I'd carefully kept away inside the innermost drawers of my brain. I try to run away, but the darkness around me laughs. Guffawing, it asks, "Trying to escape your own mind, aren't you?" Now, the only way out is the sea..