Some people look at the world and see junk in the randomness; I see possibility.
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I was told to slow down. It’s not that I disagree with this advice, I just don’t quite know how to stop a reveal once it has begun. Restraint can never be part of my promise, but this conversation will be reassuringly long. 

I remember watching you wade into the sea on a day that was much too cold in what seemed like ten thousand layers of black robe. It was like a scene from interiors. It was like toes in the sand were a map only you could understand. There were plumes of black at your waist and I swear to god your legs were joined to a fin. It was strangely beautiful, yet made me incredibly sad. 

Sometimes I lie in bed limp and face first into my pillow, and I bellow like a fog horn. Like a ship. Black waves crashing on blue. Lurking. Your ship, possessing every ounce of cargo that was feared lost. Contents extremely flammable. 

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