No man is an island, but I am no man.

Clark is visiting me again. Today he's wearing a three-piece suit and a pair of black framed glasses.

"You look ridiculous," I tell him.

He doesn't speak, just stands at the waterline, the waves never quite touching him. I turn my back on him while I root around under a fallen log, looking for lunch on my hands and knees. Today I know he's not real.

I go back to my fire, crouch, carefully feed it a dry branch. He sits cross-legged in the sand.

Today he isn't real, but tomorrow--

Clark watches me through the fire. I crawl closer.