The wind was salty, not yet cool from the sun's rays earlier that day. I was sitting on the beach away from the bonfire parties and drunken surfers. The sand ran smoothly between my toes, relieving me only briefly of the nights grievances. My gaze landed on the dark blue ocean, so dark that it was nearly black. The waves were soft and shallow, but enough to calm. Everything would have been perfect, if it wasn't for the screeching tunes of Jimmy Hendrix next to me.

The so called "Surf Nazi's" racket put me on edge. As the night wore on, the racket signaled their wastedness. The surfers already had no qualms starting trouble while sober. Who would stop them? I never speak unless it was completely necessary to do so.

The night was almost satisfying and relaxing, but a warm wind tickled my nose when I heard a strange high-pitched noise coming from out in the ocean. The soft wind whispered something that I could not decipher. My senses were suddenly alert, and my hairs arouse on my arms. Nausea crept up my stomach to my throat.

I shouldn't be here.

The wind picked up, no longer warm, and an eerie odor of decay wafted in the air while I begun to sweat with feverishly. I stood up shakily, feeling as if something had hit me in the gut. I turned and began to run toward my car, when I remembered my sandals. I doubled back in a rush and furiously sprinted back to my car. Fumbling with my keys, I roared the engine luckily to life and as my heart clenched, I sped out of the empty lot and toward the highway.

For several quiet moments, I took deep breaths and tried to slow the irrational fear that had flooded my nervous system. A thunderous pound of a migraine began to grow in the middle of my skull. All of my self-control had evaporated for no reason at all. Giggling at my idiocy, I slowed my 75 miles per hour down to a reasonable 45. My smile left my face when I passed a group of kids riding their bikes in the other direction.

I did not stop until I reached my home and settled in my bed for a good night's sleep. I could not find peace of mind to sleep. At the beach the fear was so gripping and quick, that it was hard to say that I reacted to anything. One moment the world had settled down to a dull noise, and then it was as if someone had punched me in the stomach. Was instinctual, or did I imagine it?

These thoughts in mind cause my troubled dreams.

The waking world is gray and lifeless. Dreams were my most precious guard against hopelessness that leaked through my daily routine. While routine can be comforting, I find that the world has faded away. I no longer see a curious future, but the same empty thing, day after day. I look out into the world, knowing that there was nothing left for me to see. My dreams were a ray of light.

As the world was full of bright colored lights and clouded with smoke, I stared into the eyes of a man that I did not yet know or understand. The ugly music filled my ears but did not move me from my spot. The man's face was not recognizable, but he trapped me by a fierce look. People grabbed my arms and pulled me backwards, while some people started to enclose and break my eye contact with this man. My vision swayed and suddenly his eyes captured my own again. A soft touch fluttered over my chin and then my cheek. The stranger's eyes drifted from my lips to my eyes again. He moved closer and the world faded along with the dream.

I woke up predicting my day. The next day was the same as the last: a boring repeat of a routine that had been long since established. The only difference was the news of Santa Carla's amphitheatre holding a masquerade right before my birthday. Not that I could even think of going- and not that I want to attend- I just noticed the coincidence.

As I stopped at a 711 on the way home from work, a group of skateboard punks chit-chatted in the aisle next to me. I listened to them of course. Through the boys squeaking and breaking voices I caught a pair of boys giggling obnoxiously.

"So Martin butchered his right knee, you know?"

"Yah?"

"He tried to hook up with Cameron at the festival. And you know her; she fucking nearly paralyzed the guy. He won't be able to walk for months now."

"Shit man! Remind me never to hit on that broad," replied a young pimply teenager with what I pegged as bluish-green hair. His Mohawk hair was pretty unforgettable.

"I know, but her tits are so…" This was the part where I turned and paid for my slurpy and a pathetic looking tuna salad sandwich.

As I hopped in my Jeep, another group of males were lounging on their motorcycles. While I didn't immediately recognize them, I recognized one of the girls in the center of their attention. She had golden hair, which was Tiffany Swanson's trademark. I knew her through her friend Sally who works with me at Bill's. Sally and Tiffany were attached at the hip, so it only made sense that Tiffany hung around Bill's Diner to annoy everyone that worked there. It was unusual seeing Tiffany without Sally, but the men seemed to be preoccupying Tiffany. Her high-pitched giggle broke my ears and interest.

In my rearview mirror, I turned my attention to the bikers. One had striking blond hair, but that was all that I could tell without obviously staring. In Santa Carla, meeting runaways was all too common. These guys were nothing new to me. Many had come previously searching for either a home or a good time for the coming summer, but I hardly could be bothered. I was here to do work, not distract myself.

As I drove away, a loud and hysterical laugh caught my attention just as four bikes cut in front of my car as I tried to turn right. After managing to calm my crazy heart, I finally pulled out of the parking lot. These runaways really needed to find somewhere else to call home.