He stared out across the harbor. The last rays of sunshine cascaded across the pulsing water, a flame that flickered slowly to the rhythm of approaching night. It scorched the surging cumulus clouds and wispy shards of stratus, turned them into an inferno that raged in the background of silhouetted monoliths. It was the Winamp visualization of an infinitely beautiful and unknowable song, layers upon layers of mysterious complexity embedded in the simple flicker of light across a wave.

Maybe there are no happy endings or sad endings or whimsical endings or dark endings, he thought. There are just endings.

After all, life isn't your story. You don't sit down and write the whole thing out and you sure as hell can't go back and revise it. It's at best the rambling tale of a madman, with no purpose or direction. The madman's always right so trying to write your own story can only lead to frustration. You might as well just shut the fuck up and listen and do your best to understand.

As the water went from rose to sienna to gray, he slowly stood up and began the trek back home.