Headache: Everyone talked about the pounding of the waves and the pulse of the city, how it was alive, breathing steadily at 2 a.m. and rushing like a sugared-up schoolchild after hours. I lie on my back in bed and stare at the ceiling, wishing for the spin of a dark-wood fan. A breeze floats over my head, about half a foot to high to really feel it. My bangs rustle. Down the street a fire truck pulls out of the fire station, sirens blazing under the mild sun. They say when the ground rolls and churns, it’s really the Earth’s chest, heaving and nervous. “And doesn’t it feel close to you?” At that moment the skin between us and the Earth is almost translucent, it’s so thin; we run to it, but are unaware. I flip over onto my back and the mattress creaks. It’s midday, and the city takes an early siesta.