You said this was as far from the horizon as you could bear to live—I thought it might be closer than many could fare. For decades now we’ve been conflating context with perspective. Or that’s what it looks like from here, where the city disappears just in time for a private summit with the sea. The photographic patio is mocked perfectly by the concrete shore below, waves lapping up and down beneath the modern pavement beach. You said your shelter was my storm, and I felt the familiar draw of an undertow tugging at my thoughts. Momentarily exposed by the suck, a constructed outcrop, a ruin of a miniature utopia, juts from the rising tide. The bus ride home rolls over the memory of a more utilitarian tramline. Schedules, these days, require a meteorologist. The apartment block by my stop is called REVOLUTION. Outside, I lie supine and am surprised to find there is no primary verb for speaking truth—but looking up past the gridlocked skyline, past the newly Euclidean clouds, I reckon we might be doing brutalism right.