What Is To Be Done

A day like any other. A sentence being the building block of narrative.

where we compound he problem, if only in writing.

There are places where the mind can starve, chewing over and over again on

spent husks of experience. The hands been impossibly behind the back, before the face is plunged into the dirt.

Do you know what they call it? This little island of salt? Something like a Spring, an event without horizon.

All the stars in all the skies burn like asterisks on fire, a place above the last escapable breath. blinking out one by one over the sea, over the long uncountable breath of time, until even the moon is suspect.

You had buried my feet in the sand, deeper than necessary. When the tide came, with it’s translucent rushes of sound, I waited to be drowned.

The sound of it erases everything, even the blood pumping in your ears becomes ocean, becomes a terrible season. The ghosts do not haunt you, but uselessly tear at your feet attempting to undo their blooming. Even the water is empty