The Q train bursts above ground after downtown Brooklyn, racing forward. The black sky starts to

blur into pink clouds. Too bad Chappell Roan’s Subway hadn’t been released yet—we listened to

Pink Pony Club instead. I leaned against the door, taking sunrise pictures, while Yiran used the

handrail for pull-ups, showing off her climbing skills. Despite having a bachelor’s degree in Photo

and Video, all I managed to capture were split-second frames of her getting on and off the pole—

never the full motion.Maybe the train was too fast, or maybe the dawn was changing too quickly;

the yellow carriage felt like a yellow submarine sailing through a sky turning blue.

The Ferris wheel at Luna Park flashed past. By the time we arrived, It was hard to say whether we

can still catch the most beautiful moment of sunrise because we had already missed it. But it didn’t

matter—we were still laughing as we ran along the platform, beneath stained-glass windows, like

Zhang Huaimin’s line: “When is there no moon? Where is there no bamboo or cypress? There are

just few idle people like us.”To put it simply: we were already here, so why not.

The beach was still a mess from last night’s Fourth of July fireworks—picnic trash everywhere. A

few mini-excavators were clearing it up, like some bizarre mix of futurist installation and

performance art. “After the revolution, who is going to pick up the garbage on Monday morning?”

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We sat on Yiran’s jacket, using it as a picnic blanket, and watched the waves roll in. Dozens of

seagulls darted back and forth with the tide, like predators, yet completely unfazed by the chaos

around them. I couldn’t help but admire their calm. Right then, I decided seagulls would be my new

spirit animal—after all, we both love to go to grab fries on the pier.

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We tried imitating them, chasing the waves to feel the morning water splash against our calves. In

the golden light, the scene turned cinematic—like a frame from a “widow’s memoir.” Once upon a

time, when my wife was still alive, she was radiant, laughing as she rolled up her pants to splash

through the surf, running with the tide. The sun lit her hair with a golden halo, like an unnamed

saint drifting at sea. The white foam at the water’s edge looked like an unbreakable boundary,

keeping her inside.

Then, out of nowhere, a bald head popped out of the water—a man doing his morning workout. At

the same time, another strange guy walked up and politely asked, “Can you watch my stuff for a

bit?” We said sure. He then stripped down to just his shorts and dove straight in.

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By the time we realized what was happening, both half-naked men were in front of us, joking about

which one was “our friend.” From their banter, we learned the first guy swims here every day, and

the second’s family had emigrated from Russia. Didn’t really matter, but… good to know. Before

they could start showing off any more, we grabbed our things and left.