Last month I dreamed about how things would end. A bunch of castaways, myself included, were perched on a promontory with stunning views of the ocean. (I may have “been” Boone, since Jack tried to save him twice, once successfully.) As we walked down a slight incline, the water receded to reveal a glorious beach cast in golden light (thanks to the energy source aka Magical Vagina?). All of us were in really good moods, knowing that the ordeal was over and understanding that the beach was somehow part of the reward. We talked about how much we liked each other’s writings, referring to the evocative names used for the characters: Locke, Rousseau, Austen, Sawyer, etc.
