I bend myself back into reality as the ebb of my past tugs at my knees, shins, ankles, and away. I can practically feel the salt on my lips, the seabreeze on my face and the sand between my toes as the memory tsunami pulls back into the ocean.

Then I'm shoved ahead by the throngs trying to cross the street. A mass of corporate assholes so involved in their own career paths that they wouldn't even recognize their own suite-mate if they shouldered them out of the way in the crosswalk. God, I hate the city; but it's the only place I can be myself without having to 'fess up to being myself. My shoes are getting scuffed now, as I'm frog-marched across the street by an army of salesmen, brokers, traders, and other human diseases.

I'm practically shoved into the pretzel cart on the opposing corner as a tide of business people rush past. Literally, I can hardly move amongst the force of the several hundred brushed wool trench coats and Totes umbrellas that whisk past me.

I begin to suffocate. I'm going to be trampled to death here on this pretzel cart. I fold over and my chest presses against the corrugated aluminum surface as the pretzeleer(?) runs to escape the swelling rush-hour storm surge of Wall Street dicks making their Friday escape. The reek of steamed pork leavings fills my nostrils as my face is shoved into the piping hot water of the chafing dish that holds the weiners. Both hands grapple frantically for leverage but only find themselves in condiment trays or against the slick aluminum of the cart.

I'm drowning in the most disgusting sea of processed meat and sauerkraut one could imagine. It burns. And as much as I try, I can do nothing to improve the situation.

My lungs begin to burn, I can hardly feel my hands.

I'm passing out.