Dear Osprey:

I tried to swim to the Mainland, but kept getting called back to this forlorn shore. I made for the lighthouse, though no light seemed to emanate from its tower, and rummaged through the paper-lined rooms adorned much like the nests of puffins who were absent and out to sea. The broken windows whistled a somber tune like a toothless mariner remembering a song about lost love. Why cannot I take the dinghy, make for the open sea and free myself from this wretched isle? Maybe the red pulsing light just over the rise has an answer. I shall make for it as the crow flys… or, rather, meander toward it as best I can as I navigate the island’s grassy winding paths. If nights ever does fall, I shall curl up on my bedroll and dream of sunny days until the sun itself wakes me from my slumber and beckons me into its company.