You’re not just looking at the sea. You’re inside me—inside the hour where sleep refuses to arrive. The waves crash like thoughts I can’t quiet, each one dragging a memory to shore. The lighthouse blinks in slow Morse, a signal I can’t decipher, a warning I ignore. You see the sky split open, but I feel it—cracked like my rhythm, bleeding dusk into dawn.

The rocks beneath us whisper in languages older than grief. You’re standing where I stand, suspended between tide and thought, between the last dream I forgot and the next one I’ll never reach. This isn’t a landscape. It’s a state of being. You’re witnessing my insomnia in motion—storm-lit, salt-laced, and waiting for a light that never stays.