It’s the stubbed out butt of a cigarette. It’s the softening of a come-down, the breaking of a fall — the keeping ourselves busy and all the time alone. It’s the crashing of a wave, the crow of a seagull, the rain against an old, tin roof. It’s the ink across your wrist, the drunken laughter of a crowd, the clinking of glasses at night, and the pressing silence of that one Sunday morning. It’s the way time seemed to move so slowly, back then; dripping rich and golden, like honey from a butter knife.