Because I dropped my phone in the water and learned that sleeping masks are not tripods, I’m writing this in my notebook, sitting at the beach.
I got a lot of help and now my phone is in a bowl of rice. I saw it laying and could dive it up from the bottom of the Aegean Sea – this is where mythology starts.
The water is very clear here, not like my brain, not like my life. I don’t come across very smart. Maybe in other places too.
I wanted to eat fish not at a table but at the beach and while I was making my David Attenborough movie, others had to protect my fish from cats, their eyes add up to odd numbers.
Zeus took his girls to a cave nearby. I climbed over the fence because someone died
and I got attention from a dog which I tried to shoo away with the hand that was holding the fish.
He followed me with his snout on my leg when I walked to the restaurant to pay and say thank you. I want that to signal not my connotation with food, not his deprivation of touch.
It would be nice to sit here with you, talk about my great movie, your latest audiobook, drink wine or watermelon shake, pink like our highs, sometimes, and have sex. Waves going back and forth. How they move without rush but with urgency. How you do, too.
We could change the distribution of salt.
And you’d wear the citrine on your chest for the lion in you, the same color the dog had, but didn’t notice at the time because I tried to stare myself into the essence
of a stone again.