The cold came and she froze. I like sleeping on the pier near the jagged rocks, the drunks have all fucked off, a fish splashes and the water looks like strange black syrup cocooned in burial shadows. The occasional lazy boat and torch lantern eyes will ooze by in the distance like some kind of monstrously entombed slime, Sweethearts Cove, the pitter-patter of cremated ash and midnight blue rain on my face, under the water evil spirits live in drowned men.