Waves on a shingle beach, oil on board (Daniel Graham)

I sat, within my subconscious, on that shingle beach. It was late summer and the night was warm, yet over to the east a windstorm was brewing, its peripheral gusts pushing seawater onto my cheeks. I picked up a pebble and threw it towards the ocean, losing sight of its mass long before it reached the waves. Then, in a moment of brilliance, a bowler rose before me, larger than any that night, just as the moon’s half-light broke through the density of the squall. What magic, I thought, though I knew this to be a fallacy; for all one must do to see such glory is open their eyes.