Sunday morning. West Sands. The mist is rolling in and filtering the world. The sky is the brightest of whites. And looking up all I seem able to focus on are the cuts and lines layered onto the lens of my eye. Simultaneously the white of the sky and the focus on the very lens through which I observe the world feels like stepping way way behind and out of my head. A friend holds me as both our sets of eyes redden and gleam with tears. Sometimes it is good to be sad.