Sunday, February 8, 2009

couch. surf.

I need to be by the water again. I wonder, when I have occasion to slip my feet beneath its surface, how I ever survived this long without it. Trapped in the desert, bleak brown land to all sides, the only sea the dirty river. I need to sleep by the sea, with my window cracked so the waves might lull me to sleep. I dream too much otherwise. More pieces of my heart were left on the piers and rocky shores and in the needles of the whispering pines than anywhere else I have visited. There is no rain here. No moisture to wet my lips, to cleanse my hands. I'm drying up in the desert, the foul winds of the tiny town blowing me to and fro. The people here are corpses, destitute and derelict, bones drying in the sun. I need the green, I need the sea, I need a change. If I do pack my bags, like I so long to, pray you never see me again. 

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