Me, a word I use in French sometimes, moi. The rays of the sun from behind the clouds one day on the beach lying and reading and sipping the beers we brought from our room, the beers that we bought yesterday in town, a summer ale, I think, or was it the Lobster Ale I’m thinking about. I want the fried fish platter at the Shagawong, a pint of Blue Pointe Toasted Lager alongside. Enough said; what more could you want to be said or could I need to tell you? Nothing, something, anything, what?
The Falling Leaf Review 