I read a story once, where a man was afloat at sea on a piece of his broken ship. It had been weeks and there had been no sign of a rescue mission. He was tempted by sorrow and fatigue, and wished for the bottom of the ocean, the end of the air. Then a voice inside of him said, "You could be on land in five minutes; you could be on solid earth in a week; your skin might be dry in a month... but you'll never see the day, if your eyes are the cribs of fish."

The story had no ending... we are not meant to know what happened to the shipwrecked man; we are not meant to know his choice.

I hated that story. You could wait your whole life in misery, I thought, and never ever find dry land. So what's the point? Do what you want.

I don't know the point of everyone's stories, but the point of mine is apparently this: I waited long enough, I survived enough misery, to see this day...

You are the beginning of the air, you are my dry land... and I never want to see the ocean again.