Washed out in this sea of thought, I roll among the breakers which tease the rock into sand. Soaked in salt and the whip tang of bird cries on the breeze, I allow a strange comfort in this slow dissolution, as the waves blur the boundaries between idea and ideology, between idiom and idiot. I have acquired that smooth-textured, driftwood appearance and become inured by that to the years.
Added @ 02:38 PM to Diary category on June 10, 2000