Good evening, Mr. Underwood

And so a door creaks open slowly, the adolescent whining of the hinges protesting this forced activity after years of relative ease. Three familiar faces in an unfamiliar setting, where I am the fourth.

High hopes have long since eroded. Great expectations withered. All that's left is the sullen refusal to forget what I have; a core of belief in the glimpses of talent I saw over the past 10 years; and the pleasure I get in stringing together words in an order never seen before.

I can write. I'm in a writers' group. Yaayy for me.

Revelation is powerful. I had one on the beach in Siesta Key.

I want to live here. Always. Work, play, laugh, love near the beach. There is nothing like the silky smooth powder that they call sand on Siesta. And the Gulf waters, hypnotic and powerful and ever changing. One day you could sleep in the lap of the gentle undulation. The next day is a roller-coaster ride, only way better. I want to lay on the sand and watch the people. I want to listen to the waves.

I want to be here early and walk the freshly washed surfline with the gulls, find the shells and watch the sun climb. I want to walk here late and watch the sun set, watch families play and lovers bask. I want to be part of the family, one of the lovers. I want to be here after dark when you can't really see, you can only hear.

You can have the resort with the fake paradise and pseudo tropical pool. I want the sand and the salt and the sun and the wind and the waves. I want the beach. Every day. This is where I want my life to be.