And if you are indeed that type of person, to whom actuality is so easily stepped over, to whom fact is but a membrane through which beauty and breath pass as easily as a pair of elevator doors, then you should know: it is possible, quite possible, to stand on Rogers Park beach, the northernmost beach within Chicago city limits, and looking east, pretend that you are looking at the very end of the earth. There are no equations to determine the perfect time, the perfect night, but it must be summer, and it must be late, so late that anyone who might get laid has already gotten laid and gone to bed, so late that the unlucky have already fallen asleep clutching their substitutes of choice. You must walk to the edge. If you can stand it, walk into the water. Walk past the sandbar, let yourself sink a bit. When the cold has subsided, you will be swimming in space, half of you gone now to that glittering abyss. Gaze upon it. Let yourself hear the water splashing over the last bit of submerged walkway and spill into the endless beyond. Hear the stars below it sizzle, like droplets of water on a griddle. Everything at your back will fall away. You will forget that you were born. But, for all of your worth, look away when the shivers reach your chest. Turn back, you mighty destroyer, turn back, for these nights, these stars, they can be too convincing. These nights, these stars, they can break your heart.
Rejected Entry for the Rogers Park Community Website