Here I am, sitting on this couch, peeling dead flakes of crisp, dry skin from my shoulders and back. Skin that was left torched due to exposure to the blistering sun. Dead skin that is now left scattered atop fresh, vibrant skin in the shape of some strand of tropical islands. Islands that, if I were so lucky to be on right now, bow as magnificent disciples of the nearest star in the sky that, in due turn, would once again leave my outer shell a leathery red hue. Islands that would birth waves that crash so high overhead that they refract the wicked face in the sky for a split second, shading me in the vast expanse of cool, turquoise water. Waves that, when they fold in on themselves from the stress of holding a perfect form, spray the sweetest mist into the air that continues to subdue the pain that radiates from my back and shoulders. The pain that will then turn into immobilizing red swells of heated skin. Skin that is now flaking and peeling at my finger tips. Here I am, sitting on this couch.