We are at the ocean: the boardwalk coated in salt and rust and the swirling scents of greasy sandwiches, deep-fried-fillets, close bodies slow burning in the haze. The benches are no good for sitting today, covered in vacation residue. Our home base becomes the corner by the stairs tracked with cryptogram shoe patterns of white-snow-sand. Waning summer air carries thoughts across the sea where they crash land on your face and you are reminded of changing seasons. You say this and wait. Press your hips against the red railing. A two foot drop into sand. Change like the tide mumbles from my lips and tongue onto that whirling dervish air. I am consumed in anticipation. You are deep in you.
You say yes and proceed to announce to the contents of the sunny summer day that you are worried about the nature of existence and whether the loops of doubt are ceaseless machines that jackhammer you into the queue of other surrendered souls, orbiting each other in anonymity—because it seems that you are freshly fitted with two cement sneakers that have anchored your scope in this little sphere by the shore which you claim you will never escape and that the ever ceaseless chiding monotone in the space between your ears and below your crest furiously feeds it's own fire with every failed endeavor—
I am against the ocean, observing a dog panting in a parked car like a forgotten grandparent. He watches me guilty and unsure why while his life dances at the picnic tables nearby. Everything is an illusion. Beyond you is The Nothing. When you are quiet, when you forget who you are, when you are quiet, when you chuck off the sad shambles of baggage hanging on your shoulder, when you are quiet—you are the nothing. Perfection is the void, devoid of all, without good we cannot conceive of bad.
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