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A writing retreat at a dilapidated seaside resort. You arrive with two of your companions and settle into your small rooms, each one empty but for a single bed, a small desk, a window on to the ocean. The window single paned, opening roughly. As you push it up, it rattles in its frame.
Each morning when you wake up you start a poem. You go down to breakfast in the cavernous and empty dining room, its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the spray of the beach below. You trade poems, retreat back to your rooms with coffee, write till noon.
After lunch you meet up outside the hotel and walk along the rocky beach. Every so often off the coast a boat drifts through the edge of the mist. When you get back, you exchange poems one more time. After supper in the dimly-lit hall, you retreat to your rooms for the night. You finish the poem hunched over the small, wooden desk, looking up occasionally at the lights on the water.
You repeat this for a week. At the end, the three of you collect your poems and spend the morning in the dining hall, drinking cups of scalding, syrupy coffee. You make copies of each poem for yourselves. You pack up your things. You wave goodbye wordlessly. You tuck the poems away. You will never speak of this again.