He dreams of an island. It sits in the middle of a fast and steady river. It faces north, so that it never really sees the sun rise or set; it is always bathed in, but never embraces, the light. The man dreams of this place, night after night, but he doesn't know why. Usually he is standing on the riverbank, tending to a smoldering fire, trying to stay warm. As he rubs his hands above the flames, he turns to contemplate the solitary body, silhouetted by the dusk. He wonders if he could reach it. By boat? For a moment he has a vision of a small Mediterranean ship, sails full with wind. He glances up and down the shoreline: nothing but sand. His only tool, then, his only vessel, is himself. Should he attempt the swim? He fears his lungs would not hold. They have always been weak and often failed him in the past. But he wants to get to that island. He holds his breath, counts. He wakes up suffocating. As he massages his throat with his hands, coughing back to life, he questions whether the island, or any dream, is worth this risk. He tells himself it isn't. But later that night, when he's back on the riverbank, huddled over the fire and contemplating the island at dusk, he has a hard time conjuring up conviction.
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