Holed up, in the middle of the Arabian Sea. He stares into the endlessness of the night.
No signal. Like a hedgehog in winter, he scavenges within his burrow.
The ocean—she’s angry—they say.
He slinks around the lighthouse. Stuck. Like a cat. Resentfully locked in.
Rummaging through the neglected drawers and cases hoarded in the tower, he plays. Flips through dusty records, swaying alongside the gaslight in the wind.
The Lighthouse drips, floods, trembles, flickers.
The beat continues.
He smiles as the sun finally rises. Welcomes the blinding peace, he pops his head out of the window, “Proud to be alive.”
A sea of plastic; in all its ugliness washes up, encompassing the lighthouse. He dives back into his tower, bolts all the doors and windows—with his records on repeat.