Dull, rubbed smooth by the tides. I am lying face down on the rocks, pushing my fingers through them. My eyes are closed, I can smell the salt. The rocks are small, they fit in my hands. I've stopped waiting.
Tension disappears downward.
The side of my face is pressed against the beach. You'll have to accept my work as interpretation. Next, you become the translator, involved prior to recognizing multiplicity. The darkness seems to demand an endles shifting, a dense shuffling. The destruction of codes.