I waded in the ocean as a prayer to wash my soul clean.
I honored the idea that salt might stick to my wounds, might mend the flesh, let me be holy.
Time sometimes feels as though it slows in South America, like it is consumed by the ebb and flow of my life. Like I control it, like maybe I could consume it - let it drip into me.
I saw the sun rise and set over the Atlantic Ocean.
The Brooklyn Bridge.