The sun is barely up, and I’m sitting on the edge of Hastings. My bed last night was a thin sleeping bag under a bus shelter, and my company was the drunk stumbling home from whatever pub spills people out into the street at 2 a.m. His vomit missed me by inches. Classy.

Now, I’m staring at this jellyfish, stranded on the beach like me, helpless and out of place. The tide left it behind, just dumped it here in the gravel and cigarette butts. I know the feeling. It’s so bloated and transparent, like a dead idea—nothing but water and failed instincts. Still, there’s something kind of mesmerizing about it, a little gross too. People walk past without even noticing. I wonder how long it has before it dries out, gets all crusty, then shrinks into nothing. That’s me, I think. Slowly evaporating while the rest of the world goes about their day, worrying about parking tickets or coffee orders.

Hastings isn’t much to look at when you're stuck on its fringes. The old town with its bohemian sparkle doesn’t want to see me. The tourists, with their ice cream cones and kids squealing over the arcade games, definitely don’t want me in the picture. I’m the glitch in their holiday snapshot. But I’m still here, aren’t I? Just like this jellyfish, trying to figure out what comes next, if anything does.

I reach out, finger hovering just above its surface, tempted to poke it. I’m not sure why. Morbid curiosity, I guess, same reason I check my pulse some mornings. Is it dead, or is it just waiting? Part of me hopes it stings me back, gives me some kind of sign, even if it’s just pain.

But it’s too late for that. The sun’s rising higher now, drying us both out—me and the jellyfish. Maybe tonight the tide will come back for it, wash it out to sea. Maybe not.

Me? I’ll still be here.


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That’s it—raw, immediate, and just a little off-kilter, in line with Gonzo’s blend of personal reflection and immersive observation.