I can’t see through the water on my glasses. It is the same as a sheet of white paper. Opaque, lensed by reality, siphoned into the interrogator behind all closed doors. I look for beyond in all things. This scrap of words has led me to here, where the speaking is undone to shelves of stale toast above nature’s last martyrs of the sun. They drink teardrops. I cannot see through the water. Divine, cyclical paroxysms undo my mind. Flash. Flash.
Seaweed.
All is well.
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