730. It's been 730 days. The palm tree that bears the marks of time on a beach that's made of the stuff of hourglasses. It's ironic, really. To be surrounded by time but not feel its weight.

My skin should be saggier than this, but I noticed it the other day. I haven't changed. I mean, I have. I have new scars, freckles, and sun spots, but I'm still me—still stuck.

GODS! When will it end? My prison sentence is made of sand. How many hourglasses could I fill? Certainly, it would feel more validating, less futile than everything else.

Sometimes, I throw stones at the invisible barrier, hoping they won't bounce back to me one day.

I'm in a tropical diorama with no contact from anything but the birds. They sing, so I sing, and they sleep, so I sleep. Darwin must've done this. He built a bubble to serve as a constant. He gave me birds so I can remember what I used to do—fly.

Maybe I'll die on the beach, and the birds will pick my bones. Or maybe, after 730 days, I'll finally get the courage to leave the beach. I can stare darkness and death in her eyes and kiss her deeply on the mouth. The fantasy of touch eludes me.

I never knew what I would bring to an island till now. A friend. I'd get another soul to trap with me. Dancing in an ageless dome, trapped in the base of an hourglass with nothing but time.