Up north, everything is simple. Up there, two friends, wanting to sleep unconfined, can merely grab sleeping bags and walk the short distance down the path to the beach. The night air is ripe with the rustles and sways and the surrounding woods and their inhabitants. If the air is too cool to the touch, rather than adjusting AC, a fire is built in the stone-ringed fire pit. Peaches and corn and apples are slowly smoked on the glowing coals, and when the tender warmth from the fire permeates the body too deeply, the water is calm and still, silky-smooth cream on bare skin. Two girls whom normally fill silence to the brim with constant chatter, blue-jays of the human world, are quiet, nothing needs to be said. To speak would be to desecrate the almost-spiritual nature of the moment. The usual white noise of the city is absent; a blanket of peace covers the land. The moment requires a stillness of soul to match the one engulfing the lake and bordering countryside. The world slumbers, gentle in the knowledge all is still, while the two girls lay, languidly, in the water, feeling it caress them, the placid touch providing all the comfort and closeness conversation would normally lend. Up north, none of the worries can follow you down the unkempt dirt roads. Stress and insecurities are kept at bay by a sheer refusal to acknowledge them. Up north, everything is simple.